No Matter How They Toss the Dice
by ficlit78
Summary: Series of one-shots based on adjectives from the audience. Total Grigsby. Total smuff.
1. Lush

**A/N**: Much love to sleeplessinatlanta, who has agreed to let me borrow her awesome idea for this story. Basically, readers can send me a word, and I'll write one-shots using them as a theme. To watch a real surgeon in action, go check out her stuff in Bones. It's hot stuff.

In the meantime, this first word is brought to you by Sesamina. Sesamina, when only the coolest chick in Germany will do.

I give them love, but alas, it's unrequited. I don't own the Mentalist.

* * *

**Lush**

He was a biter.

Or so he had discovered.

He was already an orally-fixated man. He needed something between his teeth almost all the time. Pizza. Pen caps. Toothpicks. Lollipops. Didn't matter really. He'd mindlessly pop it in and work it between his molars, extracting flavor from food and occupation from anything else.

It helped him think.

Pen caps were one thing. People were another freakin' kettle of fish.

Before Grace? He'd never bitten a woman in his life. He'd never looked at a woman's naked form and felt his mouth literally water at the sight. He'd never licked his lips. Never felt his stomach clench.

He'd never reacted like he was starving to death.

Never thought that the woman could sustain him better than food ever could.

And this woman did. She was more than food, she was the most lush fruit he'd ever tasted. Forbidden fruit.

The kind of fruit that just explodes in your mouth. So juicy. So ripe.

Peaches that drip. Grapes that burst. Their skins break, their contents blow up in an orgy of flavor.

Grace was no different.

Delicious flesh and soft skin. Lickable. Edible. Lush.


	2. Strengthless

**A/N**: Strengthless, my contributor tells me, is actually a thing. I believe her. She's wicked smart. Props to Pyroangel for this intriguing addition.

* * *

**Strengthless**

"Seriously?"

"Grace, I'm sorry."

"You're going to make me get up and walk stark naked into your kitchen to find something to drink? What happened to chivalry?"

"What happened to ladies' first? And how am I any less naked than you?"

"It's your house! And you've taken advantage of me. The least you can do is hydrate me."

"That's rich, baby. Who broke into my apartment and slithered into my bed after midnight?"

"You gave me a key, genius. And I was cold!"

"You were horny!"

"That…was incidental. The point is shut up and get me some water."

"Sorry, cutie pie. You have worn. Me. Out."

"Pssht. Are all those muscles painted on?"

"Ha! Oh, Grace. When it comes to you, I have no strength at all."


	3. Enthralled

**A/N**: I love this word. I was so glad when veras333 suggested it. How could you have a show about a hypnotist and not use it?

* * *

**Enthralled**

"So what are we doing, exactly?" Grace's face took on an almost preternatural beauty in the dim glow of the single candle that sat between them. Rigsby settled across from her on his living room floor, crossing his legs and sitting up straight.

He shrugged. "Jane suggested it. Said we'd learn something about each other."

Grace raised her brow skeptically. "By looking at each other and not talking?"

He nodded. "That's what he said. We have to sit here for five minutes. No talking, no looking away, no laughing or funny faces."

"And what, pray tell, are we going to learn in five minutes that we don't already know about each other?"

Rigsby looked to one side. Grace read his always-obvious body language and smirked playfully. "Well?"

He looked back shyly. "He said it would enthrall us."

Her eyes lifted with amusement and she chuckled. "Enthrall us? Like…amaze and entertain us?"

He shook his head. "Jane said the word didn't mean what most people think it means. He said it had to do with capturing each other through the sheer force of will. Like a kind of hypnotism. We look at each other. _Really _look at each other. And then we somehow realize that we're…" he dipped his head shyly again.

Her smile was slipping, her gaze becoming more serious. "That we're…?"

He looked up through his lashes. "That we're bound to each other."

Grace's complicated eye color went decidedly darker. She said nothing. She watched as his eyes dropped from hers in embarrassment and she used the moment to scoot closer to the lone candle and sit up straighter on the carpet. "When do we start?"

He shifted back to her and smiled softly, glad that she hadn't pressed him. He felt acutely embarrassed explaining such a seemingly harmless exercise in such intimate terms. He wished he had Jane's ease with language. A heterosexual man had outlined this idea in much fuller detail and Wayne hadn't felt particularly self-conscious. But as he sat across from the woman who knew every nick and scar on his body, every sound he made in the throes of passion, every position he preferred to sleep in, he felt his discomfort hit the roof as his tongue worked its clumsy way over his infinitely less suave explanation.

Luckily, she knew his stutters as well as his scars and sleeping patterns and loved him all the more for them.

"Um, now, I guess. No talking and no looking away. Keep your eyes on mine, no matter what."

She nodded pensively, taking a deep breath and letting her chin drop until her gaze fell squarely onto his. She blinked twice as her eyes adjusted and his face occupied all of her attention. He blinked back and silence filled the room.

They stared.

She noticed that her immediate inclination was to smile sheepishly. She felt slightly silly just staring at him without moving her face and she wanted to wordlessly communicate how weird she found this. But she kept her smile down. No faces. She wasn't allowed to break their concentrated gaze in any way.

Rigsby pulled a controlled breath and let it out slowly. Jane wasn't there, but he was pretty sure the man would tell him not to inhale or exhale too pointedly, for they too would be considered a betrayal of the objective. He let his facial muscles go lax as he continued to gaze openly at the woman he'd furtively watched for so long. He noticed that his eyes immediately wanted to drop from her cool, inquisitive stare. He'd been dropping his eyes from hers forever, terrified of what she'd see in them. Even now, even as a couple who had shared damn near everything, he felt the need to shift his eyes in deference to hers. It was painful to look at this pretty woman for too long. The realization surprised him. If someone had asked, he would have said that he spent ages looking at her. Only now did he understand that his gaze had never really been constant. It always pulled in her direction, but it flickered. He took a more resolute breath and slowed his blinking.

He wanted to stare at her properly. He'd never allowed himself to do so.

Grace was becoming increasingly aware to two things. One, Rigsby's unbroken stare was quite intense as she was forced to return it with no hope of relief. Two, it was undeniably sexy. She didn't let her eyes move passed his, but she could still register the rest of his face. She absorbed every single detail. His skin was subtly darkening with five o'clock shadow. The dim light tripped over the dimple in his chin. His strong jaw played an odd compliment to the sensual curve of his mouth. His nose was surprisingly graceful and straight. The arch of his brows only served to accentuate the wide, high beam quality of his large eyes. His hair barely stood out from the darkness surrounding him. Only the slight shine of his gel glinted in the candlelight.

He was beautiful.

Her excited inhalation stayed silent and slow. She couldn't look away. It was suddenly intensely uncomfortable to stare at him as blue bore relentlessly into hazel. And yet she didn't look away. She _couldn't_ look away.

_Dear God, how long have we been doing this?_ she cried out silently. _It feels like hours._

But she couldn't check a clock. They hadn't set a timer. She had to hold the invisible line and continue to look back without breaking it. But each second drew out like an hour and her increasing awareness of his attractiveness was becoming unbearable.

Looking at each other's features in such concentrated detail immediately brought a million realizations to the fore.

I can see him as a child.

_I can see her as a little girl. _

God, he's such a powerful man.

_My warrior, my Amazon. She's tough enough to kick any ass and beautiful enough for any ass to beg for it. _

His eyes. The blue is different than earlier today. Darker. Why hadn't I noticed?

_She's so sweet. Why am I so afraid to look at something so sweet? She'd let me. I know she would. _

They never noticed when the clock ticked passed five minutes. They didn't see the candle flicker from their increasingly excited breathing. They barely realized they'd leaned forward until their lips were pressed hotly together.

They were too enthralled.


	4. Vocal

A/N: Celticgina's damn fine submission is 'vocal'. Don't kill me, woman. It took an angsty turn. I had no control!

* * *

**Vocal**

"We were stupid to go there in the first place," Grace angrily stripped out of her dress shirt as she and Wayne got ready for bed. "You know Jessie from HR saw us, right? Dammit, Wayne. Do you know what this means?"

Rigsby tossed his t-shirt aside, standing just in his boxers and gesturing angrily. "Grace, what do you want me to say? That I'm sorry for taking you out for dinner where a colleague may or may not have seen us and may or may not have drawn any conclusions? How many coworkers like you and me eat meals together? You think she'll seriously kick up a fuss about us eating out? We're cops! We're partners! We eat occasionally, so Jessie can screw if she wants to read any further into it."

Grace turned angrily as she unhooked her bra, her back to him as the hooks slipped free and she pulled the garment from her body while looking around for her baggy shirt to sleep in. She was so annoyed that she didn't notice how still he went at her partial nudity or how he began to slide towards her.

"Don't be ridiculous, Wayne. You honestly think she's that stupid? That she, like the rest of the building, doesn't know exactly what's going on with us? And now she has some proof? Cops eat takeout in during stakeouts, babe. They don't dress up all pretty and sit on the same bench in a dark Italian place. God, why did we ever—," she gasped as two strong hands gripped her hips from behind and dragged her until she was flush against him. She instantly felt his hard-on pressing tightly against her back and she moaned softly.

"Enough," he growled hotly against her ear. His hands slipped down the curve of her waist before traveling back up and cupping her breasts, weighing them and using them to press her back into his chest.

"Is this all you want?" he freed one hand to push his boxers down his legs. His erection pressed hotly against her back and she mewled softly at its thick presence. He snorted with anger and pushed her forward until her hands braced her against the wall.

"I take you out because I love you, Grace. I want to sit in public and talk to you. Laugh with you. Show you off to absolutely everyone. You're my girlfriend," he whispered as his hands slid down to rid her of her panties. "You're not just some girl I _fuck_."

Her anger only heightened her arousal and she fisted her hands against the wall, punching it lightly. "Why is this happening to us?" she moaned softly. God, his hands were sliding up and down her thighs, telling her that even though she was indeed his girlfriend, right now she was _also_ a girl he fucked. "Why did you ever start this? Didn't you know it would never work?"

He grunted in annoyance and spun her around, slamming his hands close to either side of her head and leaning down with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Gimme your leg, Grace. Now."

She whimpered and bit her lips, but complied. Her leg climbed slowly until it hooked over his hip and he caught it deftly in his rough palm.

"And where are you in all this, sweetheart?" he asked lividly, pushing her back against the wall and using the leverage to lift her up onto his hips. Her other leg instinctively locked to his other side, her ankles crossing at his back. She didn't answer him, merely strained into him.

"I see," he spat. He thrust up into her and she cried out with pleasure as her body locked possessively onto his. "So it's just me, huh?"

He began to plunge deeply, grasping her thighs tightly and ramming her back into the wall. He forced out all of the sweet, provocative sounds from her lips that normally made him crow with pride and happiness. But now they only served to spur his fury.

Why in Christ's name was it always his fault when things got dicey? He pistoned into her tight little body, her slippery channel clenching him and driving the words from his mouth.

"I loved you. I ached for you. You drove me so fuckin' crazy and you never even looked my way. But who agreed to this, Grace? Who finally took me into her bed and fucked my brains out? Huh? Answer me!" He drove up hard as his voice rose darkly.

She gasped at his force and anger and love and keened loudly. "I didn't _make_ you love me, dammit. Not like you made me love you."

She felt herself cresting as his talented body filled and rocked her exactly how she liked. If it didn't feel so damn good, she'd curse him for making her lose her mind once again in his arms. She pulled him forward and kissed his cheek softly. "You could have stayed quiet," she accused lovingly.

He grunted in her ear and kissed her cheek as well as she fell screaming over the brink. "You could have said 'no'."


	5. Starry

**A/N**: peaceloveandsmiles loves sky stuff, hence the suggestion for this chapter.

* * *

**Starry**

"Such a shame," Grace sighed wistfully as she and Rigsby sat in the SUV.

It was late. A little before midnight. They'd been sitting on a house for seven straight hours now with absolutely no life filtering in or out of the place. All was dark and quiet. Rigsby's stare hadn't moved from its darkened doors or windows, but Grace's eyes, out of habit, had lifted towards the sky.

"What's that?" he asked casually, sipping from his Coke and nibbling on a fry.

She poked a finger on the windshield, instantly leaving a solitary spot in the condensation building there. "No stars," she explained. "That's one thing I miss from home," she turned and smiled at him sadly. "But here, there's too much light pollution from the city."

"Huh," he mused, looking up at the dark sky. "I guess I never really noticed."

She snorted softly. "Not a stargazer, huh?"

He shook his head ruefully. "Sorry. More of a beer and tv kinda guy."

She smiled again and turned her attention towards the house again. "Oh well. I shouldn't be distracting myself anyway." She squinted in the darkness, trying to make out any movement or anything unusual in the bushes and trees nearby. She heard tearing paper and guessed without looking over that Rigsby was ripping his burger wrapper to pieces. She didn't even blink. He was a natural fiddler, after all. He wasn't comfortable unless he had something between his teeth or fingers. It kept him from fidgeting. So she didn't even look and notice the small pile of tiny squares he was making.

They sat in silence for awhile. She felt her eyes getting heavy, so she refocused her attention, reading the mailbox number, staring at the dark windows, reciting prime numbers as far as she could remember. She didn't see her partner and lover slowly reaching towards the windshield. Dozens and dozens of times.

When she finally looked back at him to ask him the time, her voice died in her throat.

I LOVE U, tiny dots of paper on the windshield read.

U R LOVELY, in smaller letters to the side of it.

G+W, in a crude heart near the rearview mirror.

She turned towards him completely. "What's all this?"

He smiled lopsidedly. "Constellations."


	6. Pop

**A/N**: dcub called this shot, so to speak.

* * *

**Pop**

It was a phenomenal day. So perfect in sunniness and warmth that Grace moaned for the eleventh time as she was pulled against her will into the unfunnest activity God ever saw fit to inflict on a football coach's daughter.

"But I _hate_ baseball," she whined at Rigsby once again as he pointedly bought two tickets at the window and dragged her into the minor league stadium.

He tsked her like a disobedient child. "No you don't. How can such a red blooded American girl even say such a thing? What are you? A Communist?"

"Idiot," she snorted disdainfully. "Cubans kick ass in baseball. How Communist could they get?"

He waved off her argument and continued to pull her by the hand out into the glorious sunlight where he led them to their seats.

"How cool is this?" he beamed at her. "Primo seats between third base and home plate. We'll get to see everything!"

Grace snorted again as she readjusted the Sacramento River Cat ball cap he'd bought her. Her ponytail bounced happily out the back so cutely that Rigsby knew it had been worth her wrath to make her wear it.

"By everything, you mean the whole lot of nothing that goes on between the slightly less boring pitches and hits?" she asked tartly, sitting down in the molded plastic chair and huffing. There was no real annoyance in the sound, so Rigsby smiled indulgently.

He threw himself in the seat next to her and circled his arm around her shoulders. "This game is the most exciting thing ever," he corrected enthusiastically.

"Pssht," Grace bumped him with her arm. "Baseball is for fans that are too drunk to follow football."

Rigsby chuckled. It was his girlfriend's voice, but he heard a gruff and devout pigskin coach in the dismissive, intolerant words. He settled in more and pulled her closer. His blue eyes flashed brightly with excitement.

"C'mon. Give it a chance. We'll sit here, drink beer, wait for a pop fly, and root root root for the home team."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile destroyed the bored look she was going for. "A pop fly, huh?"

"Absolutely!" he shook her playfully. "I'm feeling it this game. I'm definitely, definitely feeling a pop fly heading our way."

She turned her head towards him and butted his forehead with her cap's bill. "Please," she laughed. "If a pop fly gets anywhere near us, I'll…" she looked upwards, desperately looking for a whale of a promise.

His eyes raised with interest. "You'll…?"

She leveled her eyes on his. Why not? It'll never happen anyway. "I'll propose to you in front of this whole stadium."

His expression just exploded with amusement. "_You'll _propose to _me_? Today? Here? In front of God and everybody?"

She gave him a crisp, lofty nod. "Of course not. Because there won't be a pop fly landing anywhere near us."

He shook his head in awe. "You shouldn't anger the baseball gods like that, baby. Now a snowball is going to land right in your lap just to teach you some respect."

"Ha!" she chortled. "I laugh in the face of your baseball gods _and_ your snowball. Let them do their worst."

He held his hands up. "Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you."

They settled back and watched the opening pitch.

Rigsby bought them beer and peanuts.

Grace settled comfortably into his side, annoyed to notice that football had fans on their feet too often to enjoy such uninterrupted cuddling.

Rigsby pointed out players who were up and coming. Grace counter-pointed out that it was the minors and there was nowhere to go but up. She got a peanut shell on the nose for that one.

She was merciless. Every strike got a "Swing and a miss!" from her. Every successful hit got a "Meh."

But at the bottom of the fifth, a loud crack caught everyone's attention. The ball didn't fly out, as everyone expected, but up.

Up. Up. Up.

Into the sunshine. It blinded them all and the fans squinted hard, instinctively putting their hand up to block the sunshine and protect their heads.

Grace did as well, her eyes mere slits as she watched the tiny circle fly far into the sky, slowly arcing left from the plate as it began its descent from the ozone.

As it grew larger and larger, her eyes grew rounder and rounder.

No. Way.


	7. Blizzard

**A/N**: A noun! Have we had one of these yet? Anyway, here is Kelzywolf's word, inspired by the weather at the time.

* * *

**Blizzard**

No one in the CBI building could keep their eyes away from the windows for long.

The snow.

Dear God, the snow. It was dumping down in relentless sheets and the primarily Californian population within felt awed and belittled by its mystifying presence. They were unused to these feelings and they didn't like them one bit. Californians were battle-hardened when it came to earthquakes. They were Vikings if nature threw them a raging forest fire. Floods? Drought? Man, the ecosystem was invited to do its worst.

But snow?

Suddenly the entire west side of the state felt paralyzed.

Rigsby dragged his eyes away for the millionth time and looked over to Cho. "How the hell are we supposed to ride out to El Dorado county in this shit? The cars aren't equipped for it and that dead body is only going to get squishier."

Cho didn't look up from his paperwork. "Van Pelt's on it."

His eyes narrowed questioningly. "On what?"

"Lisbon's letting her pimp one of the SUVs. She's down in the garage changing the tires."

"Alone? Dude, why aren't you down there helping her?"

Cho shrugged. "New suit."

Rigsby jumped up and headed for the elevator. "Clown," he muttered to his friend.

"Lancelot." He barely heard him mutter back.

He got down to the parking lot level and followed the sound of a jack crank. He rounded the corner and found her, smudged, sweating and smiling happily as she propped the jack high enough and slotted the tire iron onto the first nut. Her jeans were already dirty and her jacket was over the hood. Her teeth gritted as she pulled back with all her strength, fighting against the tightness only made possible by a machine when the tires were first attached. She gave an adorable little yelp of surprise when the nut gave suddenly and knocked her on her ass.

She quickly picked herself up and he gaffawed loudly. She spun around, her eyes wide with panic that someone had seen her little spill. They softened when she saw him.

He grinned. "Doesn't it suck when someone sees you fall? You think you're getting away clean, no reason to be embarrassed, but then bam! Turn around and there's that guy you like. And he saw it all."

She was wiping her hands on her thighs, biting her lower lip in embarrassment. "I can only hope that he's classy about it and doesn't draw any attention to my lack of poise." She gave him a pointed look.

Still chuckling, he walked up and tossed his own jacket on top of hers on the hood. "How can I help?"

She gestured down. "We need to jack all four tires. Snow tires replacing the front ones, chains on the back. That should get us into the foothills."

He shook his head in wonder. "And you were going to do all that yourself?"

She looked him over with playful skepticism. "I still might. They've sent me a Californian to help."

He growled, looking around quickly before snatching her up and squeezing her tight. She clapped her hand over her mouth to quell her giggles before hissing, "Let go! We're at work."

He pressed her up against the SUV, resisting the urge to wipe away the smudge of grease from her cheek. "I'm pretty damn handy, missy. Lest you forget."

She lurched forward, pressing into him as well as rejecting his entrapment of her. "Please. Six inches of snow and suddenly Sacramento is cancelled." Her eyes sparked, daring him to disagree. "What possible use are you to me, Surf City?"

He snorted and leaned down into her space. "Changing a tire isn't figure skating, baby. Californians don't need snow to know our way around a tire iron."

She smirked, letting her eyes wander down his body as it strained against his suit. Wanting to keep him on his toes, she gently reached up and tugged at his tie. He flinched a bit. She only tugged at his tie when she wanted to undress him. His body, conditioned to that fact, responded and immediately heated up.

He grabbed her hands. "Bad girl," he whispered low.

She continued to work the knot under his fingers, giving him an innocent look. "You're not going to change tires in your nice, clean shirt, are you? You'll get all…" she slid it loose and threw it over her shoulder, "…dirty."

Watching her grin like the Devil herself as she went to work on his buttons made him think very bad, unprofessional thoughts. Namely, tie her hands up with his tie, toss her in the back of their suddenly _very_ convenient SUV, and do things to her that would wobble the car right off that jack.

She finished unbuttoning him and pulled his shirt open. "Off."

He shouldered out of it and tossed it on the hood. They both stood in their t-shirts. The chill in the air was giving them both goosebumps. Another reason to take this inside the nice, warm car. She dragged her finger slowly up his bare, bump-covered arm, giving him one of her patented come-hither appraisals through her lashes. He was ready to move in those last two inches and damn whatever happened next and who might see, but the freezing cross of the tire iron magically appeared between them and shoved into his chest.

She smiled benignly. "I'll be upstairs with a mug of hot chocolate. Lemme know when you're done."


	8. Unvarnished

**A/N**: I love this word, too. Mostly because it fits our couple, unlike Jisbon, who are relatively smooth. Once again, I'm thankin' veras333 for this entry.

* * *

**Unvarnished**

A heartbreaker sat at the bar, her fingers twirling the swizzle stick in her Bloody Mary. Her red hair fell wildly down her bare back and shoulders. Her skin-tight tank top and jeans clung to every curve and sent out 'Hey, Sailor' signals to every man in the dimly lit club. She was gorgeous. She was bored.

He was late.

But a redheaded heartbreaker never stays lonely for long.

"Hey. Buy you a drink?" A tall, dark haired man greeted her with a charming, hopeful smile.

She turned to him, her dark eyes slowly rising up to his slate blue gaze. She smiled back and rattled the stick against the ice in her glass. "Already taken care of," she teased loftily.

He snapped his fingers, looking crestfallen. "Story of my life. A beautiful woman is all alone at the bar and if I'd been five minutes earlier, I would have had an opener." He gave her a playful wink.

"An opener," she dragged out in slow syllables. "Sounds like you're on the prowl."

The man's eyes went wide and theatrical. "Never, my lady. No, I'm on a quest. A noble quest."

"Is that so?" she played along, taking a sip of her blood red drink. "Pray tell, good sir, what is your quest?"

He reached out with confident grace and took her hand, holding it chastely in his. He leaned closer, his knowing eyes sparkling with enjoyment. "The only quest worth joining. I'm on a mission to find the perfect woman."

She laughed lightly, allowing his impertinent touch. "My goodness, that sounds challenging. Tell me, how do you measure the perfect woman? How will you know when you've found her?"

He released her hand, but kept their close range.

He flashed her a boyish smile and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "She must be beautiful. She must be smart. She's brave enough to sit in a bar alone, but clever enough to spare with a man's shameless flirting." His eyes dropped with strategic shyness. "She's dazzling. And when I hear her name, it'll be the most lovely name in all the world."

He stared her down for a moment, waiting for her reaction. The heartbreaker did nothing, merely returned his gaze with cool composure.

"So," he dropped his whisper even lower, moving another uninvited inch into her space. "Since you have all of those things in abundance, the only thing I need to end my quest is hear your name."

She didn't back away from his advance. Her gaze, still calm and cool, lifted above his head to the door at the front. Suddenly a warmth spread into her face and a smile bloomed more lovely than any the man had ever seen. Her soulful eyes fell back to his.

"I wish you luck on your quest," she offered kindly, reaching out and squeezing the sleeve of his $3,000 suit and patting his manicured hand.

She left her drink on the bar and slid past him. He turned in his stool and watched her snake through the light crowd, eagerness guiding each step. She didn't stop until she reached the door and threw herself into the arms of a tall, plainly dressed guy with spiky, dark hair.

He'd looked lost until the redhead appeared before him. His guileless eyes nervously darting everywhere, searching earnestly like a puppy lost in a park. But then she emerged. Suddenly a huge smile burst onto his lips and his arms slipped happily around her.

His grin didn't pull back one inch. The man at the bar cringed slightly. It was the kind of grin he'd call 'goofy'.

The heartbreaker pulled back from his artless hug and cupped his heavy jaw in her slim hands, bringing him down for a kiss that knocked that goofy grin right off his face. Oblivious to their surroundings, the man returned it, pulling her up and pushing harshly against her smaller body, nuzzling her polished skin with his coarser lips and cheeks. She melted into him, both of them uncaring of the social stigma of making out in a crowded bar.

The man at the bar sighed and ordered a dirty martini. The ornate signet ring on his pinky clinked against the glass as he raised it to his lips. Sometimes with women, there was just no accounting for taste.


	9. Cold

**A/N**: First in a series of shorts peppered throughout!

* * *

**Cold**

Rigsby tossed restlessly in his bed. It was late, a little past three in the morning. He'd given up on waiting to get sleepy and had finally turned in around ten. He hadn't wanted to, but then again, the tv wasn't distracting him as much as he'd hoped. Dinner hadn't interested him either and he'd picked at it like a fickle child. Bed seemed like the only option. He turned again, wading his pillow up in a tight ball under his head and impatiently pushing at the sheets that had twisted up around him as he continued to roll over and over. They felt suffocating. Annoyed, he kicked them to the end of the bed. It felt freer, but then he almost instantly began to feel cold. With a huff and a muttered curse, he reached down and pulled them up again, their warm, stifling presence settling around him.

In the five hours he'd been laying there, he hadn't slept a wink.

He huffed, lifting onto his elbow so he could punch his pillow in frustration, wishing it would magically assume a shape that would soothe him and knock him out. But the only way the pillow could calm him down was if it miraculously sprouted two soft, slim arms, grew three feet in length, spoke to him in hushed, loving whispers and clung to him as it slept. But the pillow mulishly refused to do anything except crumple under his fist. Stupid, non-magical pillow.

For the last two nights and for the next three, Grace had been sent to the Fresno field office to help overhaul their computer database. Word of her skills was getting around, and the smaller offices were sweet-talking Lisbon into pimping her out to help update their sorely outdated software. Grace had been pleased. It wasn't fieldwork, but she'd been happy that people were noticing her talents and making her look good for the boss. And Rigsby had been nothing but proud. His thing was arson, and he knew how important it made him feel to have a niche specialization. Now Grace was getting her props and he was delighted for her.

But the nights without her were insufferable.

He flipped onto his back and groaned, staring up at the darkened ceiling and feeling thoroughly sorry for himself. He was _so not_ this guy. He never had trouble sleeping. He almost always dropped like a stone the minute his head hit the pillow. Even before they got together and thoughts of Grace were driving him crazy, he'd simply self-gratify, releasing his tension and accruing some self-loathing, but at least it conked him out. And once they'd started dating he'd never such a satiated sleep in all his life.

But now?

He turned on his side again. The blindingly bright red numbers on his clock read 3:17. He cursed again. Either time needed to slow down so he could hopefully get a few hours in, or it needed to hurry the hell up and just be morning already so he could get up for a crappy, exhaustion-filled, Grace-less day at work. He shut his eyes, breathing deep and trying to relax. He pulled his usual pillow out from under his head and grabbed the second one next to it. Grace's pillow.

He turned his head into the cold fabric and inhaled through his nose. The scent of peaches and rosewater filled his head. A low whimper escaped him. God, he missed her so much. On every level. Sure, his body was on permanent vibrate ever since she left and suddenly abstinence—which had been the norm for over a year—was threatening to level him. But it was so much more than that. His mind, his soul, the indefinable pieces of him were just heartbroken. They knew she was coming back very soon, but they ached so badly. Yearned so badly. No wonder he couldn't sleep when all he really wanted to do was sit outside and bay at the moon, calling for her.

Instead he was adrift in his own bed, missing the soft, sweet anchor that centered him and made him still.

He buried his face in her pillow and breathed again.

_Hurry home, baby. _


	10. Barren

**A/N**: Companion piece to _Cold_. Grace's turn.

* * *

**Barren**

Grace glared at the acid green numbers taunting her from the ugly bedside table next to her hotel bed as she lay wide awake.

3:31am

She huffed and turned over, shunning that stupid clock and choosing to stare at the inane beige wall on the other side of the bed, complete with a banal print of tulips painted in a bland, impressionist style. Its boring, lifeless presence was visible, even in the darkness of her room. _Ugh_, she thought in irritation. _Hotel art._

This was ridiculous. She'd been laying there for hours, trying desperately to get some much needed sleep after killing herself for the past two days overhauling the Fresno office computer system. It was grueling, tedious work. Probably why it had been left undone for so long. No one in that office had the ability or inclination to upgrade to current government standards, which is exactly why they cow-towed to Lisbon so they could borrow her resident computer nerd. In truth, Grace was glad for the recognition, no matter how boring it was to upload and install software.

But there was a far bigger problem that she hadn't anticipated when she took this five-day fieldtrip. She missed Wayne so much that her chest felt tight and pressurized. She couldn't breathe properly, almost like she'd developed asthma overnight. She tried to inhale deeply, but only pulled a meager breath that barely covered her oxygen needs and was devoid of any scents that reminded her of him.

That was her biggest mistake. Assuming she was still the cool, independent woman that didn't need anyone but herself, she'd kissed her boyfriend goodbye and hadn't thought to pack a single thing that reminded her of him. No photos, no trinkets, and most appallingly, no piece of his clothing. She cursed her neediness as much as she cursed her lack of planning. She should have realized that five nights without Wayne was going to be hell, but she hadn't so much as tossed one of his t-shirts into her bag. And now, tossing back and forth in a foreign bed in sterile sheets, she would have killed to have one. One of his white ones that she could crawl into and surround herself in the scent of his soap and skin. At this very moment, she could be burrowing her nose into its softness and inhaling the delicious, reassuring smell of her lover. It might have even fooled her senses enough to let her sleep, halfway convinced that he was there with her, holding her securely in that barren, meaningless bed and gently chiding her to stop fussing and get some sleep. It might have worked. She'd never know.

She flipped again and swore loudly, staring daggers at that infuriating clock that now informed her it was 3:37. Jesus, could time be moving any slower?

Her gaze fell from the clock and settled on a slim piece of black plastic next to it. Her phone. It sat there innocently enough, but suddenly Grace got the distinct impression that it was watching her. Waiting to see what she did now that she'd noticed it.

_You gonna do it?_ the phone asked silently. _You gonna be _that_ girl? The whimpy, needy waif who calls her boyfriend in the middle of the night to make him comfort her? Make him repeat how much he loves her? Maybe tell her a story while he's at it?_

She shook her head. She was _not _that girl. She would not call him, wake him up from his deep sleep and make him talk to her, all to assuage her loneliness. It wasn't fair to him. Plus it made her look weak and pathetic, like she couldn't handle a few days without him. _Honestly_, she berated herself. _He'd think I was being childish_.

She drew her knees up to her chest, shivering despite the blankets. The bed felt so big. So empty. And she suddenly felt so small. So exposed. She hadn't realized how addicted she'd become to his body. She needed his warmth. She needed the long, imposing shelter of his frame. She hadn't realized that he'd become home. Without him, she was homeless. No, worse than that. She was a woman without a country. Maybe even worse than that. After all, she'd only been born into America. But she'd chosen Wayne.

This was stupid.

She sat up and grabbed her phone, hitting the speed dial and not allowing herself to think about how sad and dependent it made her look. It couldn't be helped. She needed his voice.

He picked up after one ring. "Grace?" There wasn't any trace of sleep in his voice, only hope.

"Wayne," she breathed out in relief.

"Christ, I miss you," he groaned. "Come home. Now."

Grace gave a brief, surprised laugh. She couldn't believe it, he was awake. He was lonely. And he sounded like he was dying of separation anxiety, just like she was. She closed her eyes and smiled. "I want to. Oh baby, I miss you so much. I can't sleep, not without you."

"Me either. Jesus, how am I supposed to get through three more days without you?"

She mewled softly in agreement. "I'll try to finish sooner. I promise. Right now, will you just talk to me for a little while? I just need to hear your voice. Please?"

"Sweet girl," he murmured softly. "I never knew that I could hate my bed as much as I do without you in it. These last two nights have sucked so much. All I want to do is drive out to Fresno right now."

Grace sighed, sliding down further into the mattress, feeling a little more comfortable. "By the time you get here, you'd have to turn around to go into work."

"Fuck it," he grunted. "If I speed, I can be there in two hours."

Grace closed her eyes. Just hearing his frustration and need was making her feel better. "No, baby. We need to prove to the boss and ourselves that we can be apart. We're professionals, not angsty teens. We can spend five days away from each other, can't we?"

"No," he huffed petulantly.

She smiled again. "I love you, too."

She heard him huff again. "Call me in the morning. Then call me again on your lunch break. Then call me again when you're done for the day."

"Anything else?" she asked sweetly.

"Yeah," he rasped. "Think about me every fucking second."

Her smile fell and she moaned softly. "Damn you. You know I already do."

"Good," he said. "Now tell me how much you miss me again before we hang up."

"So much," her voice trembled slightly. "This bed is driving me crazy. I hate sleeping without you. I'm so cold."

"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "Baby, I need you. Let me drive over there."

"No," she whispered back. "We can do this. I'll call you tomorrow. I miss you. I love you."

"I love you so much it's killing me. Call soon." Grace nearly moaned again at the roughness in his voice.

"Goodnight, Wayne."

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

_Click_


	11. Steamy

**A/N**: Companion piece to _Cold_ and _Barren_. Another corker of an entry from celticgina!

* * *

**Steamy**

She'd done as she was told. She called him first thing in the morning when she pulled herself out of a few broken, fitful hours of early morning sleep. He hadn't sounded very chipper. In fact, he sounded like he'd been through a meat grinder, all rough and torn up. They'd said good morning and wished each other a good day. She'd kissed her phone after she had hung up. After a long morning of code and recycle time in the Fresno mainframe, she'd picked up a salad at a nearby eatery and put in her second call. She got his voicemail. Disappointed but not surprised, she left a quick message. "_I'm thinking about you every second. Are you thinking about me?_"

It was well past nine o'clock when she dragged herself into her hotel room, kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the bed. She threw her arm over her eyes, exhausted and missing her own apartment more than ever. She missed her sofa. She missed her kitchen with all of her carefully selected snacks that didn't come from a mini bar and cost four bucks a pop. She missed her own, comfy bed. Most of all, she missed the man that had slotted so effortlessly into her place.

She sat up and stretched. She'd promised to call him, but right now she wanted to unwind in her usual way. She got to her feet and went to the bathroom. She stopped the tub and ran a bath, as hot as she could bear it. As it filled, she undressed, tugging tiredly at her clothes, carefully setting her gun, badge and phone on the counter, just within reach. She expertly twisted her hair up, turned off the faucet, and gingerly sank into the steaming heat.

Oh, yeah. That was it.

She sighed gratefully as the hot water swallowed her up. She didn't even reach for the soap, she just laid back into the heat and let her body relax after a long day hunched in front of a box. Her eyes closed, she rotated her neck slowly in each direction, stretching the stiff muscles out. Her hands settled on her stomach. Breathing deeply again, she let the tension work itself out and into the waiting water.

_Ping ping ping! Ping ping ping!_

Her ringtone forced her eyes open and won a high-pitched whine of annoyance. _Dammit_, she cursed silently. _If those idiots in the field office expect me to drive back down for some reason, I'll bust some heads. _

She flicked her wrist, sending water drops everywhere, before picking up her phone and flipping it open. "Grace Van Pelt." It sounded more annoyed than she meant it to.

"Aw, did my baby have a long day?" A deep baritone filled her ear and made her heart skip a beat.

A low, purring sound answered him, clearly pleased that he was on the other end. "Wayne," she growled softly. "Thank God. I thought you were the Fresno office."

He chuckled softly. "Not getting along with our fine Frez brethren?"

"No, they're nice," she said. "But I'm done for tonight and I'm not getting out of this tub unless the building's on fire. Maybe not even then."

There was silence on his end.

She cocked her head into her phone. "Babe? You still there?"

"You're in the tub?" His voice had lost all playfulness.

She chuckled throatily. "Yep." More silence. "Why? Where are you?"

"At home. I'm, uh…in bed."

"Already? Are you that tired?"

"No." His voice sounded strained. "I'm just watching tv. I was bored and thought I'd try to catch up on my sleep since the last two nights…" His sentence petered off.

"Hmmmm," she mused. "So, anything worth watching? There should be some really bad cop shows on right about n—,"

"You are so fucking beautiful." He cut her off.

The sentence hit her like a brick. "What?"

"You are so beautiful, Grace. Gorgeous. And right now you're naked in a bathtub and I can't look at you."

She swallowed and laughed softly. "You've seen it all before."

"But I can't see it now," he said huskily. "And I want to. Where's your other hand?"

"My other—?" She didn't understand.

His voice was dripping with lust. "One is holding the phone. Where's the other one?"

"Um…on my stomach." Her fingers skittered slightly across her abdomen under the water's surface.

Rigsby rumbled deeply. "Aaaah. I love how smooth you are there. Your bellybutton is the cutest I've ever seen."

She smiled. "It's just a bellybutton."

"No," he corrected. "It's adorable. It quivers just a little when I lick it."

"Wayne," she whispered. "What are you do—?"

"Rub it for me, Grace. Tell me how it feels."

She whimpered, helpless against his order. Her fingers rimmed her navel gently and she mewled with desire into the phone. It felt good. Very good, in fact. But it was hollow at the same time. Her tummy didn't quiver under her own touch. Her fingers were creating the sensation, but they suddenly sparked with the tactile memory of fanning into his short hair as he tongued her bellybutton. She moaned with longing.

"It feels okay," she said softly. "But it's not you. I miss how your tongue feels against me. I miss how your teeth scrape my skin and give me goosebumps. I miss your hair between my fingers."

She heard his breathing break and gruff harshly in her earpiece. He didn't speak. Grace listened as he gasped loudly. Grace smiled, understanding perfectly. As her fingers traveled lower and her middle finger traced her clit, she gasped back.

"No," she moaned. "No, my hands don't feel right. They're not strong enough. Not rough enough. I need it harder. I need more."

"_Graaace_." A hiss in her ear and she cried out, her body momentarily fooled into thinking that the sensations being created in her lower region were his handiwork.

"Baby," she whimpered back. "Tell me what you're doing."

He gave a strangled bark. "Jerking off."

"Tell me how," she asked breathlessly, her own hand speeding up.

"Fuck," he muttered. "My right hand's wrapped around my cock and I'm imagining it's you."

"Am I fisting you?" Her outrageously sexy question made him growl. "Or am I sucking you? Or am I riding you?"

"Oh, God. Any of them. All of them. I don't care, I just want you touching me. Your hands, your lips, your tight little pussy. I want all of them."

Pleasure spiked between her legs and made her thighs spasm violently. She cried out his name before answering. "Then I'll choose. Right now, I want to suck you. First, just the tip, so softly that before long you're screaming at me to take more. Then I want to just devour you. I want you to grab me and just choke me with your cock. You taste so good, baby. I want to lick you like candy."

"Jesus Christ," he hissed hotly.

"Yes!" Grace encouraged. She was getting so close. Hearing him so excited, so frustrated, was pushing her quickly towards the brink. "Oh, baby, I miss you so bad. I miss how you touch me."

"Believe me, you don't want it now," he panted hoarsely. "I promise you wouldn't like how I'd touch you if I had you right now."

"I would," she moaned desperately. "Tell me. Tell me what you'd do."

He groaned loudly, she could tell his breathing coincided with his pumping fist. "I'd split you in half," he promised darkly. "I'd pin you to this bed and fuck you so hard that I'd break you. I'd shove my cock anywhere it would fit. I'd bite your tits and your ass. And I'd come all over that perfect little bellybutton of yours."

Grace screamed. Ecstasy rocketed through her body so violently that her head snapped to one side and she dropped her phone on the floor. Water rippled all around her as she spasmed and jerked harshly. Behind her own orgasm, she heard Rigsby roar deafeningly from the tiny speaker on the floor. Her eyes drooped as she moaned. Between the hot water and that amazing release, she'd never felt more relaxed and exhausted. She groped blindly next to the tub until she found her phone.

"Wayne?" she rasped.

She could hear the ragged drag of his breathing on the other end. "I'm here," he managed.

"Oh, my God," she said softly.

"Heh," he chuckled. "Yeah, that...that was pretty damn hot."

"I still miss you," she pouted.

"Good," he panted. "Because I'm still going crazy here without you."

She smiled sleepily. "Just two more days. We can make two more days."

He snorted in annoyance. "I'll be a mess by the time you get here, baby."

Her smile deepened. She reveled in the fact that her love had such a potent effect on such a strong, self-reliant man. It meant she wasn't alone in this…this _debilitating_ need. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Morning, noon and night," he insisted.

"Promise. Goodnight, Wayne."

"Goodnight, baby. I am so fucking in love with you. Call soon."

_Click_


	12. Enough

**A/N**: Last in the _Cold _series. Much love to everyone sending their reviews and PMs. I'm really glad you're liking this! Don't worry, more one-shots are coming, maybe even a few more short stories like this one! Meanwhile, keep sending in words. I'll add them to the list.

* * *

**Enough**

Enough was enough.

It was early on the morning of the fifth day. Just gone three o'clock, and just like the many nights before this one, Rigsby hadn't slept at all. He was exhausted. His mind felt like oatmeal. His limbs felt like lead. But unlike the previous string of sleepless nights, he didn't move an inch. His bleary eyes were cracked open just enough to make out the texture of his dark ceiling. His dry lips were parted as he pulled shallow breaths.

He was dying. He was sure of it.

Just as surely as if his lungs hadn't received oxygen, or his blood hadn't received water, his system was shutting down after four days without a vital substance. He couldn't go another day. He knew he'd promised to, but it was no use. By the end of the day, he'd be inhaling a life-saving dose of what he needed, but sadly it wasn't going to come soon enough. He'd be dead; a lifeless lump beached at his workstation. In a matter of hours, he'd perish from a lack of Grace.

He made a decision.

He dragged his sleep-deprived carcass out of bed and forced it to take a freezing shower, shocking it into mild wakefulness. He then put in a call.

"Hey boss. Glad it's your voicemail, I don't want to wake you. Listen, I'm feeling horrible today, I haven't slept all night. I'm taking a sick day and going to the doctor's. I have my cell on if you need me. Otherwise, I'll be in bed for the rest of the day. Thanks."

He pulled some clothes on and staggered out into the parking lot. Starting his car up in the predawn darkness, he flipped on his lights and pointed the wheels south.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Fresno, 5:34am _

The sound of a cacophonic ring brought Grace out of a disturbed quasi-sleep. It was the kind of annoying sleep that was shallow enough for the noise to startle her rather than slowly wake her up. She jumped at the first ring, darting into a sitting position and swatting blindly at the noise until she grabbed the cradle on the room's phone. She lifted it to her ear.

"Hello?" she rasped tiredly.

"Miss Van Pelt?"

"Yes. Who is this, please?" She shook her head to eject the disorientation.

"Ma'am, this is the front desk. I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we have a policeman down here who's asking for your room number."

She squinted at the clock. "Police? At 5:30 in the morning? Am I parked illegally or something?"

"He won't state his business, ma'am, he's just insisting that he needs to see you. Immediately. Shall we send him up?"

"No," she said quickly. "No, that's okay. I'll just come down. Thank you for letting me know."

They hung up and Grace climbed out of bed. She swore angrily as she swiped her keycard from the desk, not even bothering with her hoodie as she made her way to the door in her tank top, pajama bottoms and out of control hair. If a cop expected people to look collected and professional then they should damn well show up at a decent hour and not ass o'clock in the morning. She shuffled into the hallway in her bare feet and grabbed the elevator from the tenth floor to the lobby.

The door opened to raised voices.

"Look, I just need to see her. She's not in trouble and I'm not here to arrest her. Just give me her damn room number and I'll get out of your face. What the hell is the problem?"

"Sir, if you'll just calm down—,"

"Why the fuck do you think I'm here?! Let me see her and I'll fucking calm down!"

Grace turned the corner into the lobby and her breath caught in her throat. His back was turned to her, rippling and angry under his shirt as he towered over the desk clerk. He was leaning over the counter like he was considering ripping the guy across it and punching him until he was part of the carpet. Her tired eyes widened. Her heart, so sluggish and lethargic over the past four days, exploded back to life.

_He was here?_

_He was here!_

_He couldn't be here! _

_He wasn't supposed to be here!_

_Thank God he was here!_

"Wayne?" It escaped her lips without her permission.

He turned.

Sweet Jesus, his face. His stubble was darker than she'd ever seen it. The dark bristles dusted his cheeks and chin. His eyes were almost entirely red. Even from ten feet away, the angry shots of blood stood out from the white. His skin looked ashen. His hair was mussed. And when he turned and saw her standing there, all rumpled from sleep with her wild red hair framing her face and shoulders, his hands started to shake.

"Grace." It was a cross between a groan and an incantation.

The clerk craned his head in her direction, misreading their intense stares and fearing for her safety. "Ma'am?"

She put her hand up, but her eyes never left the furious giant threatening to tear the lobby apart. "It's okay. He's my partner. Thank you for calling me."

Willing herself not to tremble, she put her hand out. She meant to say "Come on," but her words failed her. Looking at him, his crazed desperation radiating off of him, she couldn't summon a single syllable. She stepped forward, her bare feet sliding across the carpet. He glanced down and saw them. The realization that she was in her PJs made him move forward. He took her hand, letting her lead him back to the elevator corridor, watching her press the up arrow.

Touching her hand revived him instantly. With no foot traffic, the elevator arrived immediately and as she stepped forward he followed too close, coming up right behind her and dragging her hand to his lips. The doors closed and she turned instantly, pushing against the elevator wall and pulling him with her. Moaning like a man dying of thirst, he brought her palm to his lips, cupping her hand around his cheek as he sucked and lapped at her skin.

Something broke inside Grace.

She didn't care why he'd come. She didn't care that they had to be at work in a few hours. She certainly didn't care that both of them were nearly dead from exhaustion. They weren't going to suffer one more second of deprivation. Enough was enough.

Her hand shot out and hit the emergency stop button. The car ground to a halt, suspended in the shaft. She sobbed and tore her hand away from his mouth, cupped his scruffy cheeks and stood on tiptoe, fusing her lips against his.

Half-dead as he looked, he reacted quickly. He devoured her mouth, his tongue driving hard inside and stroking hers with abandon. She moaned loudly as he hooked his fingers into the straps of her tank and roughly jerked them down her arms, exposing her bare breasts. She cried out in surprise, but pushed herself into his grasping hands, arching and sighing as he worked her aching nipples between his thumbs and index fingers.

She grabbed each side of his pop-button shirt and ripped it apart, the buttons snapping apart so quickly that it sounded like a zipper. She ripped her lips away from his and attacked his chest, latching onto one of his nipples and nipping at it while she sucked greedily. His arms went around her and suddenly she was crushed into the warm expanse of his chiseled chest, her breasts pressed firmly against him and her nails digging channels into his back.

He hissed at the sensation. He pawed urgently at her flannel pants, pushing them down her legs with no trouble and growling with appreciation at her lack of panties. He kicked the pants away from her ankles and pushed her back against the wall, violently gripping her thighs and hoisting her up onto his clad hips. He attacked her mouth again, plumbing it desperately, mindless of everything except tasting her, inhaling her, feeling her wrapped all around him.

She keened frantically as his stubble scraped and stung its way from her lips, down her throat and rubbing against her breasts as he pulled a stiff nipple into his mouth and tugged hard. It had a magnetic effect on her heart. It thumped and strained towards his close proximity. Her whole body throbbed hotly. Her tiredness only seemed to compound her need for immediate relief. Her hands slid down his bare chest and clawed at his fly. She unsnapped the button and lowered his zipper, pushing at sides of his jeans and massaging his pulsing erection through his boxers.

He switched to her other breast, sucking hard and grunting as she pressed into his groin.

Her eyes rolled up. She couldn't take another second. She, sweet little Grace Van Pelt, needed to get fucked. It was a matter of survival.

"Please," she whispered. It was the only word to pass between them. "Pleeeaaase."

His head lifted. Their eyes locked. Their hearts broke at the sight of the other being in such a bad way, but they were also happy now that they were imbibing the cure in such a liberal dose.

He reached between them, freed himself, and thrust sharply into her slippery, desperate depths.

They cried out together, their union magically healing their wretched conditions in one swift stroke. He cinched her legs more tightly around him, slamming her against the cool plastic of the wall and roaring with senseless joy as the tightest, hottest utopia pulled him in and squeezed.

He forced her wider and rammed hard, driving in and out in frantic, unmeasured pumps.

Grace cried out again. She strained into some of the roughest sex she'd ever had and whimpered for more. She yanked him closer and began necking him, biting hard and licking the breaks in the skin. Her hands fisted in his hair, her fingers singing with pleasure as they tunneled deep.

She moaned as the teeth from his open zipper bit into her soft thighs with each frenzied thrust of their hips. They'd leave marks in the morning. Dozens of marks.

He dragged his sandpapery cheek against hers as he sought her ear, biting the lobe once he found it. "Can't…stop, baby."

She yanked him back by his hair, looking into his eyes as he drove her so hard against the wall that she thought they might crack it. "Don't stop," she begged. "Need you. Need you so fucking much."

He roared again. The noise reverberated in the tiny cube. She cupped the back of his head and brought him to her, putting her lips to his and kissing him properly for the first time. Her hips still pumped wildly against his, spurring him on to keep their rapid pace, but her lips moved slowly, gently asking for entry before making love to his mouth while the rest of her fucked his body without mercy.

"My Grace," he murmured against her lips. "Almost died without you."

"Me too," she whimpered. Her release was uncoiling in her lower belly and threatening to overwhelm her with each filling stroke of his cock. "My baby…so close."

"Come all over me, honey. I need to feel you."

She gasped and went rigid, her core clenching and sucking him in as she screamed in relief. He felt her muscles lock onto him and he barely thrust twice more before he shot up all of his load in a hot, long stream that nearly dropped him. Gasping and shaking, he slid to the floor, his lover still wrapped around him and pressed against the wall. She sagged against his chest, not even able to keep her head up. Sweating, panting, they sat for a few minutes trying to collect themselves.

Rigsby came around first.

He tipped her chin up with his fingers, his glassy eyes appraising hers before he lowered his face and kissed her softly. She responded, but only just, her lips moving with his in small, languid presses. He pulled back and smiled. His swollen eyes still looked awful, but a helluva lot happier.

"You're tired," he said gruffly.

She smiled back wanly. "Kettle."

He flashed her his little boy smile before gently prodding her to stand up with him. Once up, he pulled her tank top by the straps up to her shoulders, covering her now-reddened breasts. He reached down and picked up her flannel pants, helping her into them as she held his shoulders and stepped in one leg at a time. He settled them on her hips before reaching over and smacking the red button again. As he pulled his clothes back together, the elevator clanked as the gears resumed their work and pulled them up to the tenth floor.

The doors opened with a ding and they stepped off. Grace pulled her keycard from her pocket and led him inside. They stripped without ceremony and fell into the kind size bed. Rigsby instinctively fell on his back. Grace cuddled into his side. One of his arms went around her back while the other anchored her thigh over his hips. Her arms went under his neck and around his chest, locking on tight.

They sighed together. In many ways, they needed this more than the sex. Rigsby felt his calm return and sleep was fast approaching. Grace felt loved and protected, her sated body bound to her man, warm at last.

"Is your alarm set?" he asked drowsily.

"Hmmm. Why?" She could barely keep her eyes open.

"Because you're calling in late this morning. We're sleeping until ten, then I'm driving you to the field office and telling those thieving assholes that they've had you long enough."

She chuckled. "I only need an hour or two, just to show them how the new system works."

"An hour," he begrudgingly allowed. "Then I'm taking you to lunch, bringing you back here, making love to you properly, then we're getting the hell out of this town."

She hummed happily. "Good strategy, Napoleon."

"Thank you. Now quit sassing and go to sleep, missy."

She smiled against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat lulling her. He dropped one more kiss to the top of her head, inhaling her scent of peaches and rosewater and purring contentedly. She snuggled closer, dropping her own kiss over his heart before pressing her ear over it again.

They fell asleep within minutes.

They were home.


	13. Rouge

**A/N**: A color meant for Jane, but has become equally relevant for Rigsby, I'd say. Suggested by Allia, ye faire maid of Olden Tymes.

* * *

**Rouge**

It all started when Jane had given her rubies and Rigsby saw red in more ways than one. Before a red mist of jealousy clouded his sight and made him want to dislocate the harmless eccentric's jaw, he'd seen her open the box and stare with wonder.

The facets caught the light and refracted across her wondrous expression and danced in her already resplendent hair. Rubies and Grace, the two red gems seemed surprised to see each other.

She put them on. Her eyes dropped shyly. She felt out of context, a child in her mother's clothes. But everyone saw how they molded to her throat and seemed to become part of her skin. A giant string of rubies would overwhelm most women's looks. On Grace, it clung naturally. It didn't overwhelm, it accentuated. The picky stones chose their wearer wisely, or so Rigsby chose to believe. It was better than admitting that another man had done the choosing, and worse still to admit that he'd chosen so well. When she'd modestly handed them back, his jealous side had rejoiced. No one got to mark that beautiful throat except him. Someday. But his romantic side felt it was a sin for her to part with them. They'd spent millions of years becoming a geological marvel for _her_. When they completed their transformation in that dark mine, they had passed purposefully between the rough hands of men before they found home against her pale body.

He noticed jewelry stores all the time now. Battalions of dead, lifeless diamonds cast their sterile reflections and made him squint. He never went in, but he always slowed down.

Over many months, he'd walked past a dozen windows a dozen times. He always searched for red. He never saw anything but white.

For some reason, this upset him.

Red was the most stunning color in the world. Didn't jewelers know that?

He knew he wasn't rich man. He knew he couldn't order an entire wardrobe of clothing made entirely of rubies for her like he wanted to. But he knew, should he ever drop to his knees and ask her to share her life with him, there was only one color of stone he'd slip on her finger if she made him the happiest man alive and said yes.


	14. Awkward

A/N: Because living in an apartment complex sucks when you're sleeping with someone.

* * *

**Awkward**

Hi Grace,

This is Abby from next door. In 34C? We've met a couple times in the lobby and at the mail boxes. You slipped a Christmas card under my door a few months ago? Anyway, hi!

Um, look this is really embarrassing and I don't want to sound like a prude, but I was wondering if I could ask you something. You've been a really great neighbor and I've never had any problems before now, but over the last few months I think you've started seeing someone. The only reason I'm guessing that is because I think your bedroom is on the other side of mine and almost every night for the past two months I've been hearing noises. Okay, I'll just write it. You've having sex with someone. A lot. Really loudly. For hours at a time.

I'm so sorry! I know that sounds really rude, and I'd NEVER say anything ordinarily, but it's keeping me awake and I have really long shifts at the hospital and need my sleep. Can I beg you for a favor and ask you guys to keep it down? Or stay at his place more often?

Please, please, please don't see this as a complaint. Just a request. I'm really glad you've found someone. It's hard out there, right? Just remember that I'm on the other side and the idiots who designed this building didn't have our social lives in mind when they put the bedrooms next to each other. Anyway, I'm done turning red as I write this. Hopefully I'll see you around.

Thanks!

Abby Maunder


	15. Bane

**A/N**: First in a series. What if Lisbon actually hadn't killed Dan Hollenbeck when she shot him? What if he was in jail? What if Rigsby couldn't let go of the fact that Dan nearly killed Grace? Another entry from Sesamina. Girl knows good words.

* * *

**Bane**

An entire year had passed and it still jerked him awake some nights. Sweating and gasping with fear, he'd relive that night with the terrifying addition of hindsight, raging against the cuffs that imprisoned him while she ran for her life from a maniac.

Blood drips into his eyes. The scene before him turns red as Grace turns in her car seat, away from _his own_ gun pointed squarely at her head, knowing a tiny change in position won't save her but unable to help herself any other way. In the scene before him, Jane is never there. It's only Grace. Always Grace. Rigsby's terror didn't extend to the man who kinda brought it on himself anyway, so his presence wasn't needed in the mental horror show that threatened to murder his angel for the crime of trusting her killer. Being romantically involved with her killer.

Through the red, he sees Hollenbeck. His slight frame rigid with furious intent. He's aiming into her car. He's going to empty the clip into the front seats. Rigsby sees it all from his nice, safe position in the bathroom where he'd been left. He wasn't even important enough to kill, just unpredictable enough to need a leash.

In his dream, he heard her scream before the shots rang out. He roars with impotent rage and pulls with all his might against his own cuffs as they yoke him to the railing. It won't budge. Tears mix with his blood.

He couldn't save her.

It was that horrifying thought that always woke him up. Grace was dead and he hadn't saved her. He'd huffed and puffed at Hollenbeck, but it was the slim lawyer that had blown Rigsby down like a straw house and came within a hair's breadth of shooting her dead. With Rigsby's gun, no less.

He'd failed her.

For many months afterwards, he'd shot upright in his bed, moaning and trembling as his brain slowly righted itself and remembered that it was just a dream. Grace was unhurt (no thanks to him) and asleep in her bed all warm and safe. He'd resist the overpowering urge to call her in the middle of the night, just so he could hear her voice and know that she was okay.

Nowadays when the dream jolted him awake in the darkness, his arms were curled around the proof of her safety and warmth. Sometimes he woke her up with his nightmare. She'd whisper and soothe until he finally drifted back to sleep. Other times, she simply shifted in his embrace and murmured, ensconced in her own dream world. His hands would rove softly over her body, confirming she was with him. Alive. Safe. Nowadays, he calmed down faster than he had when he'd slept alone.

Still, the dream persisted.

He'd fervently hoped that now that she slept alongside him, the dream would disappear. He hoped it would just…he wasn't sure…maybe just decide to stop torturing him now that he was in a better position to take care of her and make sure she was safe at all times. He watched over her as best he could while at work. Wild horses couldn't drag her away from him while she slept in his arms. He had her on round-the-clock surveillance. He'd paid his penance with suffering from how close he'd come to losing her. He planned to spend the rest of his life atoning by protecting her. So why wouldn't the dream cut him some slack?

The dream woke him up twice more that week and he decided that he'd had enough.

The next morning, he put in a call and drove over to the Sac State Prison.

There was a man he needed to see.


	16. Circumnavigate

**A/N**: Because I want to see this scene happen more than anything.

* * *

**Circumnavigate**

"You're in the ocean," she chided smilingly.

"Am not. I'm driving to Mexico. See?" Rigsby pushed the blue toy car south, trapping it with his index finger when it got to its destination. "We're now in Oaxaca. _Bienvenida_."

Grace peered down at the blank globe and shook her head. "You've just fallen into the Gulf of Mexico. Well done."

He waved her off. "Doesn't matter. I want to go there too, anyway. Okay, where to next?" He made little vrooming sounds as the miniature Hot Rod idled on the round surface.

"Okay," she grinned. "I wanna go to Venice. We have to go at least once before it sinks."

He looked up at her skeptically. "Am I going to get an earful for driving over the Atlantic Ocean? I don't see a ferry anywhere." His fingers coasted over the region in question, searching for a ferry and not finding one.

She shook her head. "The car's magic. It'll make it, no trouble."

Rigsby nodded and pointed the toy car northeast. "Okay. Venice. Going over the Atlantic Osssshuuuun…." he drew out as the car followed an upwards curve towards Europe, "….over Moroccoooo…" he passed the invisible African country, "…into the Mediterranean Sea aaaaaand," the car paused and he looked up in grinning victory, "we've arrived in the beautiful Italian city of Venice. Hope you brought flip flops. It's flooded. Again."

Grace gasped suddenly and grabbed his other hand, pressing into the warm expanse where Vietnam would have been.

"There," she breathed out in wonder. "Feel him?"

Still pressing the car gently against her, he fanned his hand across Vietnam and put his ear to Eurasia. Their little explorer kicked his daddy's hand and made him grin from ear to ear.

"Hi, baby," he murmured and kissed Eurasia. "Don't want to go to Venice? No problem. Southeast Asia it is."

He slid around the perfect sphere of Grace's tummy until his lips pressed into Vietnam. "Our boy likes the jungle," he whispered smilingly.

Grace's lower lip trembled as she watched Wayne pepper kisses on their little one's preferred destination on the invisible globe of her stomach. He set the little car aside and trapped the globe in his hands, holding their future between them.


	17. Hush

**A/N**: Because a certain lil' lady wanted a continuation from _Awkward_.

* * *

**Hush**

Rigsby struggled to keep a straight face as he read the note for the second time. He came to his favorite part and read aloud. "A lot. Really loudly. For hours at a time."

He looked up at his girlfriend's horrified and red expression. "It's nice to know our work isn't going unnoticed."

"This is so not funny, babe," Grace moaned, utterly humiliated. "How am I ever going to look Abby in the eye again? I mean, honestly! 'Hopefully I'll see you around?' Is she kidding? That's it," she threw her hands up. "I'm wearing a burka from now on. I'm moving to Europe. I'm changing my name to Kitty LaRue and opening a coffee shop. It's been fun, Agent Rigsby. I'll send you a postcard."

Rigsby grinned at her before launching forward from his sitting position on the couch. He grabbed her hips as she sat next to him and rolled her to the floor, attacking her neck with his tongue while tickling her ribs.

She shrieked and tried unsuccessfully to fight him off. She shoved weakly into his shoulders, gasping and giggling and clawing for freedom. "Get off!" she sobbed loudly. "She'll hear us!"

"Good!" he roared against her throat. "Ask her if she has any requests. I can start with 'Oh, my God, you're so damn beautiful,' and end by screaming your name and begging you to fuck me stupid."

"Shut up!" she screeched, tears streaming down her cheeks. Tired of being on the losing end, she bent her leg and shot it upwards, hooking his throat with startling flexibility and peeling him back and under her as she pinned his neck between her thigh and calf.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned as he was flipped expertly to his back. "That is so hot." His eyes burned into hers from his trapped position. "Take your clothes off and do it again."

"I said shut up, tough guy," she growled haughtily and squeezed him harder. Her bare skin was pricked by his stubble as her running shorts rode up a little. "We're never making another peep in this apartment again. I'm proclaiming it a Noise Free Zone from here on out."

His eyes snapped dangerously beneath her. She huffed down at him for good measure, enjoying how riled up he got when she ordered him around. What she didn't expect was his hand reaching up behind her until she felt his rough fingers slip into the leg of her shorts and zero in on her folds, stroking firmly. She gasped and tightened her grip on him instinctively, making him gasp with her as his throat was constricted.

She moaned loudly above him as he worked her. He smiled and rasped, "One of us is going to pass out, baby, and it sure as hell isn't going to be me." His other hand slid under her baby tee to fondle her breasts.

"God, I hate you," she groaned lovingly. Sparks of pleasure were shooting off in every direction as she jerked and strained in his hands. "How can I stay quiet when you touch me like this?"

He used her distraction to escape from her loosening hold and flip her underneath him once again. She barely noticed. As long as he kept caressing her through her shorts, she was pretty sure the Apocalypse itself wouldn't get her attention. She gripped his arms, arching all over her body into his fingers, begging for more.

"Take me to bed," he purred over her, watching with pure masculine pride as she rode his fingertips and whimpered his name. Fuck if it wasn't a sight that he'd take to his grave. "Take me into your bed and let me make love to you. I promise," he leaned down and kissed her plump lips, "we won't make a single sound."

He was getting very good at knowing which words drove her the craziest. He was learning that asking for permission made her absolutely wild. Permission into her bed. Permission into her body. Permission to fuck her until they both dropped from exhaustion. He'd whisper in such a way, stating rather than asking, that made her feel like her consent was merely a formality. That if she refused him, he'd rip her clothes off and lick every inch of her until, sobbing and pleading, she'd pull him close and take him deep. One day soon, she'd have enough restraint to find out what a refusal would do to him.

Now, she simply nodded.

He nodded back and rose up, pulling her with him, then dropping his shoulder into her stomach and lifting her up. She shrieked with surprise as he started walking to her room.

"Wayne! Put me down!"

She gasped when he reached up and smacked her ass lightly, half on her shorts and half on the skin just below her cheeks. "Hush," he admonished, tossing her on her bed. Towering above her, he grinned like a madman and stripped out of his clothes in record time. Standing naked, his cock jutting thickly, he stared down at her.

"Which wall is next to 34C?" he asked in a whisper.

Grace, already losing her vocabulary at the sight of her man all hot and bothered, simply pointed to the wall across from her bed. She didn't keep many things in her room. Aside from a desk in the corner, the wall was completely bare.

He turned back to her. "Naked. Now."

She didn't move. Instead, she cocked her eyebrow at him. He wasn't the only one who got riled up at being ordered around. "No."

He growled playfully and lunged at her. She shrieked again, only to have her mouth covered roughly by his hand. "Noise Free Zone, remember? No screaming." He hooked his fingers into the elastic of her short and yanked them off her. Grabbing her long legs, he tugged her until she was perched on the side of the bed while he settled between them, his knees on the floor. "Disobedient girl," he hissed quietly. "Get that top off or I'll make this the shortest-lived Noise Free Zone in history."

"No!" she hissed back, smiling brightly and letting him know that she wasn't backing down.

"Fine," he rumbled. "I'll just occupy myself until you decide to do as you're told."

He settled his head between her thighs and proceeded to lick her out while she bit her lips together and moaned hotly behind the seal. The intensity of his attack had her bucking against his mouth and sobbing loudly, even with her lips closed. Her actions were rewarded with another smack to the ass and being pinned more securely to the mattress. _Hush! _he commanded wordlessly, and went back to punishing her willfulness with the most devastating tongue fuck of her life.

Oh, he was a cruel man.

Grace could let go and scream her head off as he relentlessly pushed her towards release, thus breaking her fifteen-minute old rule. Or she could take her top off, admitting defeat and acquiescing to his demands.

_Damn him!_

She relented and pulled her top off, her breasts spilling out at she arched her back and spasmed under him.

He lifted his head and smirked at her stunning, naked body, but didn't take long to enjoy the view. He was too interested in making her scream and breaking her precious new rule. Taking advantage of her position, he placed his arms on the underside of her knees and pushed her back into the mattress. He was half kneeling, half leaning over her. Grace's eyes widened. They'd never done it in this position before. Her thighs pushed into her chest and his as he lowered himself. She knew it the minute she felt him nudge gently inside her, she was a goner.

She bit her lips hard as her body stretched tightly around him. The position took him so deep that her entire being cried out with overjoyed pleasure. Her eyes rolled up and her lips fell open.

Heaven.

Rigsby hadn't planned on losing at his own game, at least not so early on, but as her pussy burned and squeezed the holy hell out of him, a groan escaped his lips that couldn't be mistaken for anything else but a man buried deep in the most perfect fuck of his life.

He hissed when a slim little hand shot out and slapped his ass, so conveniently reachable on the other side of her hips. _Hush!_ the sweet little sting taunted him.

He looked down and caught her eyes. The defiant gaze that met his made him want to roar with joy. Jesus Christ, but he loved this woman. She jutted her cute little finger at the wall across the room and brought the same finger to her lips.

_Ssssshhhhh._

He withdrew from her and grinned. _Oh, we'll see who stays quiet, baby._

He plunged deep, making her take all of him. She went rigid underneath him and strained wildly. He stroked again, loving how agonizingly deep the position let him thrust. She bucked against his hips, her eyes shut tightly, her lips securely between her teeth as she kept silent.

He smirked and began stroking rhythmically, pulling all the way out and sinking all the way in, driving her deep into the bed and making her inhale sharply with each deeply penetrating thrust. She clapped her hands over her mouth, keeping the breathy gasps as muted as possible as he trapped her and drove into her like a machine. Abby couldn't possibly hear her breathing, but Abby was all but forgotten as Grace and Wayne continued to wordlessly dare each other to scream first.

Grace was in hell. She hadn't realized just how vocal they were as lovers. She wanted to mindlessly praise him, breathlessly stroke his ego with the God's honest truth that he felt so damn wonderful inside her. She wanted to coo his name over and over. She wanted to sob with every smack of their hips. She wanted to demand he fuck her harder. Faster. Moremoremoremore.

Poor Abby. No wonder she never got any sleep.

Rigsby was in hell. He'd never thought of himself as a talkative man, but being in Grace's body triggered some kind of mental stimulation that left him wanting to groan and babble nonstop about how gorgeous she was when she was under him. He wanted to hiss how perfect she felt around him. He wanted drive all of his hard into all of her soft and just howl with ecstasy as she called his name in that sweet little voice.

He wanted to tell her a million things. The same million things he _always _told her and that Abby was now privy to thanks to crappy urban planning. No wonder she'd cringed at hearing them. The things he wanted to say were so damn intense and private that anyone hearing them would feel like an intruder, even with a wall between them.

The wall.

Rigsby reached down and pulled Grace up into his arms, their bodies still locked together. She gasped, clutching him tightly as he gripped her ass to hold her to him. Her arms went around his neck and held on tight, her eyes searching his questioningly.

He smiled into her gaze and wiggled his brows. Time to really play.

He swiveled and pressed her into the wall, resuming his frantic pace as he took her standing up.

Abby's wall.

The realization crashed into Grace and she had to bite back another groan. He was fucking her with someone else barely two feet away from them, daring her to stay quiet as he drove pure bliss into her again and again.

_He's so mean_, she wailed silently. _So mean and—oh, God. Just. Like. That!_

She shuddered and arched as her orgasm pitched and ricocheted through her body. She spasmed violently, her scream dying to let loose and her mouth barely keeping a lid on it. Without thinking, she shot forward and bit him. Hard. It was the only way. She'd have scared Abby to death otherwise. As her muscles jolted hard with the almost painful pleasure of release, her jaws snapped shut over his shoulder, digging into his flesh and helping her ease through her orgasm on mute.

If she'd known that her coping mechanism would push him over the edge and break him, she might have done it a lot sooner.

Rigsby, already so close to coming, felt his angel clench and flutter softly around him before the slicing pain of her incisors cut a new facet of pleasure into his release. She couldn't scream for him, so she'd bitten him instead. Marked him in a moment of blinding pleasure that he'd given her. Cut him because, even in the throes of that pleasure, she was his tough little warrior who never backed down from a challenge. _How ridiculously perfect was she?_

He wasn't made of stone.

He roared at a terrifying decibel.

He'd lost and damn it felt good to lose.

He came so hard inside her that she felt him tremble and release deep in her womb. She trembled with him. She loved feeling him let go. She let herself sob softly into his throat as he shook all around her. When he finally pulled his head up, he grinned sheepishly as she smacked him gently upside the head and put her finger to her lips.

_Sssssshhhh!_


	18. Reckoning

**A/N**: The second in the Bane series. Review your hearts out, people! I'm gunning for 100 by Chapter 20. Help me reach my goal and I'll totally make it worth your while. Wink, wink.

* * *

**Reckoning**

He looked even skinnier than Rigsby remembered. Paler. As he was led to the table where Rigsby sat and chained to a ring in the brushed steel top. Hollenbeck's sunken, haunted eyes regarded him suspiciously. The guard nodded to the agent. Professional courtesy. He looked down at the small man in his orange jumpsuit (two sizes too big) and tapped the table threateningly. "Behave or I'll fuckin' skull thump you, Holls."

Hollenbeck watched the man's back as he headed towards the door, hatred gleaming brightly. Rigsby wondered if he got beaten down often for mouthing off. He seriously doubted the man was a problem physically, but he'd easily believe that Hollenbeck would rub people the wrong way with his constant insistence that he'd been done wrong by. Inmates would find that beat-worthy. As would guards, if only so he'd shut up.

Prison clearly didn't agree with him.

"Agent Rigsby," Hollenbeck recalled woodenly. "What you are doing here?"

Rigsby tried to remember the story he'd invented as he looked Hollenbeck in the eye and tried desperately not to jump across the table and indulge in what the inmates and guards had inflicted on him.

"Routine follow-up," he answered as calmly as he could. "I have a few questions regarding the night you were taken into custody."

Dan snorted. "You mean the night I failed."

Rigsby lowered his head. "I mean the night you nearly got your ass blown off for almost killing an agent," he hissed.

Dan squinted. "What the hell are you talking about? Patrick Jane isn't a fucking agent. And I've been over this a million times. With the CBI, with my lawyer, at my trial. Use your security clearance and go read your own damn files. I've got nothing to add."

Rigsby heard him, but didn't absorb the words past where he denied almost killing an agent. Jane? Who the fuck was talking about Jane?

"I'm talking about Grace Van Pelt, you shit heel. You discharged a firearm no less than three times in her direction. You assaulted her and were discovered pointing a gun right at her when you were apprehended. Don't sit there and tell me you didn't almost kill her or I'll fuck you up so bad that it'll make your prison beatdowns feel like massage therapy."

Dan squinted in irritated confusion. "Grace had nothing to do with it. I'm sorry I had to involve her, but I had no choice. She worked with Jane and I needed her to get close. It was never my intention to shoot her."

Rigsby kept his hands flat on the table. It helped him concentrate by making them stay there. He wasn't the most disciplined of men and if he let his focus slip even for a second, he fists would go take care of business without him. He looked down at them to confirm they were still in front of him and not splintering Hollenbeck's temple.

He was mildly annoyed to find them behaving.

He leaned forward. "Why her?"

"What?" Agitation was a constant in this man.

His errant hand reached out and jerked Dan's chains, yanking him closer, forcing his attention. "You didn't need Grace. There are dozens of women in that building. You only needed access to the parking lot and building. Any woman working there could have let you in. Why her?"

"I told you," he spat. "She works with Jane. I needed to get close."

"Just close enough to shoot, asshole. You didn't need to get close enough for formal introductions. You didn't need Grace to get inside, walk up to our floor and blow his head off. You already knew who he was, so don't bullshit me about Grace being an integral piece of your plan. Quit fucking lying to me and tell me why you chose her." Risgby's voice was barely a whisper.

Dan sensed serious trouble behind it. He slumped back into his chair, chewing his bottom lip pensively. Finally, he looked up. "She was nice to me."

Rigsby flinched. He hadn't expected that. "What?"

Dan gave a defeated nod. "I had a list of possible women who worked in the building. Single, young, blah blah blah; women who might go for me if I played my cards right. I'd seen Grace outside your office in the parking lot. I knew from the website that she worked serious crimes with Jane. She wasn't even my first choice. I was afraid I'd be too close, get found out before I could kill him. I was waiting outside to bump into one of the women in Narcotics when Grace walked out. She didn't see me. Her nose was buried in a folder. She ran right into me outside the gate." Dan gazed ruefully at Rigsby. "She was so sweet, apologizing up and down and smiling nervously the whole time. It was so easy. I laughed and offered to buy her a coffee from the cart inside the gate. She said okay."

He held his chained hands up. "I was in. Just like that."

"You sick bastard," Rigsby growled.

"Oh, please," Hollenbeck sneered. "Like you'd be down here defending the honor of _any_ other woman than Grace. You're only here because you're pissed off that I was dating your secret crush. The fact that I was using her runs a late second to the fact that you wanted her for yourself and couldn't have her."

Rigsby slammed his fists into the steel surface, but to his surprise Hollenbeck only laughed. "See? Even now you want to piss all over your territory and run me off like a stray dog. Why are you really here, Agent Rigsby? To ask if I had any intention of shooting Grace? Or to hassle a convict because your crush liked him and not you?"

"She's not my crush," Rigsby gritted.

"Ha!" Dan barked mirthlessly. "Lest we forget our little hissy fit in the bathroom right before I knocked you out with your own fucking gun, _Agent_." He drew the last word out pointedly.

A lot of stuff nearly fell off Rigsby's tongue as his rage chipped at his control. _She's my girlfriend. She's my lover. I take her home every night and taste every inch of her until she calls _my_ name. Mine! Not yours, you arrogant prick. _

But he found the strength to keep it simple. "She's with _me_ now."

Dan raised his hands in frustration again. "_Mazel tov_. So then what the fuck do you want?"

Rigsby stared at him for a long time, pondering his question. Just what did he want? Contrition? An admission that Grace was a wonderful human being and that Dan felt like a monster even aiming a gun in her direction? That Dan suspected that Grace never really felt that strongly for him and only dated him out of sweetness and pity? That Dan had actually considered giving up his crazy scheme once he'd gotten to know Grace and decided that being with her was more important than petty revenge?

Looking at Hollenbeck now, he suddenly realized that he wanted to ask all of these questions and receive all reassuring answers back. He also realized that Hollenbeck would never give them. All of these questions simply highlighted Rigsby's issues, not Dan's. Dan felt mild regret for pulling Grace into it. That was all. She didn't bewitch him. She didn't make him want to change his ways. She was sweet, but she was an acceptable loss in the hunt for Jane. She was just a nice girl.

Just a nice girl, as far as Dan was concerned.

The only reason for living, as far as Rigsby was concerned.

Insight filled him. He drew back and let it work its way into his anger. Gazing steadily at Hollenbeck, Rigsby let the realization pull him back into a calmer frame of mind. Grace was his, in every sense. This man had had the chance to be with her and chose vengeance instead. To Rigsby, that made him a fool. Just like Hollenbeck thought Rigsby was a fool; a lovesick fool that threatened legitimate boyfriends because he was too chickenshit to declare himself to the object of his affections. Hollenbeck couldn't have cared less about Rigsby's and Grace's frustrated attraction to each other, just like they couldn't have cared less about his issues with his parents and Jane's past dealings with them.

Now Dan was in jail. No one got hurt (except Dan). And Grace was with _him_ now. That was all that mattered.

He stood up slowly. "I think we're done here," he said to Dan.

Dan smirked with disdain. "Have an epiphany, did we?"

"Fuck you, Dan. Enjoy your dime."

"Eight years, if I eat all my vegetables and say all my prayers," Dan snorted.

Rigsby was already waving the guard back in. The thick man shouldered his way in and jerked his chin towards Dan. "That blowhard give you any trouble?"

Rigsby shook his head. "Perfect little angel. Thanks for the private room, man. 'ppreciate it."

The guard nodded. "No prob. Carl there will take you out," he gestured to another guard by the door.

As Rigsby turned to leave, Dan called to him. "Hey! Tell Grace I'm still sorry. And tell Jane that I'll be out soon enough."

Rigsby didn't even turn around. Epiphany or not, Dan Hollenbeck could burn in hell and take his messages with him.


	19. Fallout

**A/N**: The final of the _Bane_ series. Getting closer, folks. Keep reviewing! And keep sending words!

* * *

**Fallout**

She was livid. Standing in front of him in her living room, hands on her hips, she glared daggers at him until he couldn't take their jabbing anymore and he lowered his head.

"Please don't be mad."

"Please don't be mad," she echoed furiously. "Are you kidding me?"

"I just…I had to, Grace. I'm sorry, I didn't want to keep it from you. But I had to."

Grace continued to eye him angrily as he kept his gaze on the floor. She'd found out. Of course she'd found out. How the hell had he expected to keep such a thing from her? The Sac prison had called to confirm his visitation after he'd left and Grace had taken the call. The guard calling told her that prisoner Dan Hollenbeck would be ready in question in a private room, as per Agent Rigsby's request. Grace had thanked the man politely, hung up, and promptly had a rage attack.

Dan Hollenbeck. Wayne had gone to see Dan Fucking Hollenbeck. Without telling her, no less. Without telling anyone. She'd clenched her fists and barely kept her scream in her throat. Instead, she sat rigidly at her desk for the rest of the day and stewed.

_Why?_ she'd fumed inwardly. _Why is he talking to that bastard? It's been a year. Can't we just leave well enough alone?_

Her usually flawless typing sported some serious typos as her fingers clicked along without her brain's full attention.

Grace didn't know what she felt worse about. Was it the fact that Wayne had lied to her? Yeah. That stung considerably. Was it that every time she thought about Dan, she instantly felt like a fool? Yeah, that too. Dan had duped her into thinking he was interested in her to get at Jane. It made her feel gullible as well as unattractive. She knew the latter was a little sillier than the first, but she couldn't help it. Everyone in the building knew she'd been taken for a ride, just like they knew that her budding relationship with a handsome lawyer had gone down in spectacularly public flames. She might have been able to handle the hurt better if no one had known, being the private creature she was, but no. The whole thing had to blow up with the dazzling effect of a train wreck and fireworks combined. Everybody watched. Everybody tsked. Everybody discussed it over their coffee, on their stakeouts, 'round the water cooler.

It had taken her months to walk down the halls and not feel the eyes of others watching her.

And that didn't even cover the fallout with Rigsby. That fateful night, she'd gone from wanting to kill him for his ridiculous interference to hugging him tight and nearly kissing him in mindless relief. He'd attacked her boyfriend like a jealous husband, acting like he had every right to yank Hollenbeck aside and threaten him.

Even now, Grace felt herself get riled up at the memory. Who the hell did he think he was? Hell, if she wanted to date a super villain straight out of Marvel Comics who owned an evil weather machine and kicked puppies for fun, then that's exactly what she'd do. She needed no permission and no approval. From anyone, least of all from a colleague who bullied her suitors without a blush but couldn't so much as pass her a stapler without stuttering shyly.

And then Dan almost killed Wayne.

That changed everything.

It shouldn't have, Grace knew. The principle was still there. But…

But.

He'd been beaten. He'd been cuffed and left to bleed on the freezing tiles. He'd tried to protect her. He'd tried to defend her. The only thing he hadn't realized was just how much protection and defense she'd actually needed. He'd restrained himself and kept his threats verbal. If he'd indulged his instincts and beat the shit out his rival, Dan never would have seen Jane. He wouldn't have threatened him and Grace. He wouldn't have shot the guard.

If Wayne had behaved like a maniac, Hollenbeck never would have had the chance to.

But he hadn't. And he'd paid. So when the cuffs finally came off her wrists, Grace ran to him. She found him, bleeding and leaning against a wall. She didn't think. She went to him. She held him. She whispered "I'm sorry" and meant so much more. And when she pulled away, her lips instinctively sought his, wanting to comfort him as well as herself. Everything about work and the rules were forgotten. She cared for this man and he was injured because of her. She wanted to kiss him and tried to.

Fate intervened.

Stupid, lousy fate.

These thoughts tormented Grace long after the dust settled on that whole clusterfuck.

She came back to the moment, looking at his dark head lowered against her anger. Once again, she was furious at his interference and he was taking it without a fight. The familiarity of the situation cooled her a little. Here he was, no doubt trying to protect her again and accepting her ire as a necessary blow.

She took a deep breath and skipped to the end, moving into his space and slipping her arms around him. His head went up and he inhaled sharply in surprise, but lost no time in wrapping his arms around her back and pulling her close.

"I'm still mad," she huffed into his chest. "I still want to know why the hell you went to see him."

"Baby, I'm sorry," he offered humbly, clearing just wanting to end the fight. "I won't see him again. I promise." His hands coasted over her shoulders, seeking comfort in her closeness.

She pulled back to look at him plaintively. "Just tell me why. Please, baby," she used the pet name to calm his anxiety. "What happened that made you go out there?"

His eyes slanted away from hers and she squeezed him tighter. No looking away, it said. One of his hands worked its way into her loose hair. He sighed. "The dream is driving me crazy."

Her eyes softened and she began rubbing his back softly. "It's just a dream," she repeated her late night consolation to him. "It'll fade with time."

"It's had plenty of time," he rasped darkly. "A year, actually. But still I wake up thinking that you're dead and it's my fault. I can't take it anymore."

Suddenly he leaned down and scooped her up, swinging her legs over his forearms and squeezing her tight as he walked over to her sofa, falling backwards into its comfy depths. Grace held on and gasped when they hit the cushions and bounced slightly. His actions felt lighthearted, but his motivations were pure need. He buried his head in the V of her chest and raised knees. "I had to look him in the eye and ask him straight out."

"Ask him what?" His ear was right next to her lips, so she kept her voice soft.

He sighed again. She felt the warmth of his breath through her shirt. "Why he chose you, of all the women we work with. And then…how he could be with you, even for a week, and then try and hurt you." He turned his head to look at her. "And…I had to see him again, just so I could stare at the man you liked, you touched, and know that he'd never have that again. Because _I_ have it now."

Her brow raised in amazement.

"Wayne, I don't understand. Are you mad that he touched me? Or are you mad that he touched me and didn't mean it?" she asked.

His head arced slowly back and forth miserably. "I don't know which one makes me want to kill him more."

She huffed, mildly indignant. "Would you like me to give him a second chance? Try and convince him that we could be good together if he'd just let the whole Jane-killing thing go?"

Rigsby knew she was making a point, but it didn't stop the muscles in his neck from flaring angrily at the very idea of her and Dan together. He couldn't help it. This woman drove him to such possessive madness that the mere mention of her with someone else made his fists clench and his hackles rise.

"You wanted him, and he used you to try and kill our friend and would have shot you to get to him. For being with you, I want to beat the shit out of him. For almost killing you, I want to rip his heart out through his mouth."

She loved him for his honesty, but she had to make say her piece. "So, what? Do you plan of visiting all my ex-boyfriends and beating them up retroactively for daring to be with me before you came into my life? Should I have locked myself away in a tower, all clean and virginal, on the off chance that that you rode by and took an interest?"

He grunted in frustration, but she pushed on.

"Wayne, be fair. I've never asked about your ex-girlfriends and I don't plan to. I don't care who you've slept with in the past. It's not important. The important thing is that I'm with you now. Of course I get a little jealous at the idea of them being with you. Touching you. Making you happy. But that's not fair, is it? It's not fair to you."

His eyes blinked in surprise at her admission. She was jealous of _his_ exes? Jesus Christ, was she kidding? Rigsby snorted softly. As smugly happy as her jealousy made him feel, she _had_ to know how completely unnecessary it was. He was crazy about her. The women from his past didn't even enter his mind anymore, not since Grace had pranced into his life and set his world on fire. He loved the idea of her fighting for him, but recoiled at the notion that she might feel threatened by the girls that he could only remember as pale practice relationships. They couldn't touch her. No one could. Miss Universe herself could chain herself to his bed and breathily swear that her only mission in life was to bake cookies for orphans, read to blind people, cure cancer and fuck him into an early grave.

Thanks, Kiki, but he already had an angel that could do all of that and more.

He glanced up at her apologetically, but stayed his course. "I don't blame you for having exes, babe. Yes, the thought of other men touching you and making you happy makes me crazy, but that's not what I went to see Hollenbeck about. The truth is that I hate him. If I'd been a man about it, I would have confessed how I felt and maybe he never would have had a chance with you." He looked down, embarrassed. "Then he betrayed your trust. And after that, he threatened you physically. I went to the prison today because I had half a mind to tear his arms off and beat him to death with them."

Her anger broke and she smiled despite herself. "Big, tough protector, huh? Defending me against all the bad men in the world?" She snuggled deeper into his lap. "You never did tell me what you said to him in the bathroom."

He scoffed lightly. "Subsequent shit occurred. It didn't seem important afterwards."

She squeezed him affectionately. "You could tell me now. Just for kicks."

He reddened. "C'mon. Does it really matter anymore?"

She chuckled at his embarrassment. "C'mon, yourself. Whatever you said to him, you should have said to me. So tell me now. What did you tell Dan?"

He chaffed at hearing that bastard's name in her pretty voice. He cleared his throat and looked down. "Basically? I told him I'd kill him if he hurt you."

She chuckled. "You need a new line."

"You asked," he defended with a pout.

"I did," she agreed. She snaked her arms around his neck and held him. "Thank you for telling me. And…I sort of want to thank you for scaring other men away from me." She looked up shyly. "It's kinda sexy, watching you lock horns with other men. Especially since…" she smiled and didn't finish.

He nudged her gently. "Since?" he prodded.

She closed her eyes and bit her lip. "Since you're so much bigger than everyone else. It's hard not to get excited knowing you're stronger than most guys."

He smiled with embarrassment. "You sure didn't think so at the time."

She rested her forehead against his temple. "I wasn't really allowed to show it, was I? Plus I was mad at you."

He nuzzled his cheek against her nose. "Seems like you're always mad at me."

She placed a dozen kisses across his cheekbone and murmured, "You barged into my life and my heart and refused to leave. I'll always be furious with how hard I fell for you."


	20. Escape

**A/N**: From a flesh contributor! Not that ya'll aren't made of flesh, but this one is from a real life friend and I can confirm with reasonable certainty that she's not a cyborg. The rest of you, I'd give a solid 75% chance of non-cyborgism. Honk if you're human! By honk, I mean review.

* * *

**Escape**

_He's everywhere._

She's everywhere.

_His clothes are in my hamper._

Her perfume is in my sheets.

_His shirts are my pajamas._

Her panties are mixed in with my ties.

_His scent is in my couch cushions._

Her running shoes are in my living room.

_His plain toiletries are mixed in with my girly stuff. _

Her strands of red hair turn up on my pillow.

_His sweat mixes with mine. _

Her body tangles with mine.

_His flesh is my bed frame. _

Her eyes haunt me long after she leaves.

_His voice growls hungrily in my dreams. _

Her voice messages make my heart skip.

_His name in a case file drives me crazy._

Her heels click when she walks to her desk.

_His shoulders splay and ripple when he puts his jacket on._

Her lunch sits next to my Coke in the fridge.

_His desk drawer hides a love note I wrote him._

Her lips….

_His kisses…_

Oh, God, she's in my blood.

_He's all I see. _

I can't escape her.

_I can't get away from him. _

Jesus Christ, who wants to escape?

_Why would I ever want to escape? _


	21. Drastic

**A/N**: OMG! OMG! OMG! We've made it to 100 reviews by Chapter 20! Muchas smoochas to all you guys for all the love you've sent. Because two people, Caritas1979 and deceptivecadence, pushed me over the top with their multiple reviews, I'll do their words in thanks. First up, Caritas. Her word, her scenario.

* * *

**Drastic**

"One more."

She shook her head sloppily and laughed. "Nope. I'm done."

"Come on. This is part of your initiation. You've never made out with anyone while completely smashed. This is Phase One: Tequila." Rigsby smiled warmly at her over his row of empty shot glasses. Spilled salt and mauled lime wedges littered the bar in front of them. The Friday night crowds jostled around them as the bar filled with downtown business people kicking off the weekend in drunken style. After Rigsby had wheedled for an entire day, Grace caved and admitted something personal that no one else knew. She'd never allowed herself to get completely hammered on a date.

Rigsby gallantly insisted they correct that social rite of passage the moment they got off work. So here she was. Plastered.

Grace hiccupped, listing to one side in her suddenly _very_ high bar stool as she tried to stay upright. "Any more smashed and…and…I'd be potatoes." It made total sense in her head.

He chuckled kindly. "That's mashed, pretty girl. And maybe you _have_ had enough."

Her eyes widened and she nodded sagely. "Told ya."

She swiveled her head in both directions, gripping the bar as she did to make sure she didn't fall over. "Before I…Phase Two…before that, I need the bathroom. Does this bar have one?" She looked back at him. "Or do we have to make out right away?"

Tipsy, but not loaded, Rigsby giggled louder than he should have. "I think you're allowed to pee." He paused, giving her an exaggerated once-over. "Unless you're going to throw up. If that's the case, Phase Two is off."

So loaded that 'tipsy' was a weigh station fifty miles back, Grace giggled even louder. "Nope, not going to throw up. Promise. But I _do_ need to pee." She wagged her finger at him as she made this very important clarification.

He nodded, wide eyes equaling hers, and pointed towards the back. "You want help?"

"I can walk," she huffed indignantly, wobbling off the chair and standing up unsteadily. "I think." She turned and headed towards the back, her hands splayed inconspicuously at her sides, maintaining her balance.

Rigsby chuckled as he watched her go. She was just so damn adorable. As she picked her way with exaggerated care through the crowd, he couldn't decide what tickled him more: that's she'd never shown this side of herself to anyone before, or that she felt safe enough to show it to him. As he'd suspected, drunk Grace was just as lovable as professional Grace, serious Grace, laughing Grace, and every other Grace. Half-turned in his stool and gazing sappily at her retreating form, he didn't notice he had company until he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned in his seat and was greeted with the startling sight of five young women looking at him with five identical Fuck Me pouts.

"Excuse me," the girl who tapped him giggled. She was wearing a pretend bridal veil and was dressed to kill every man in the room. Her slinky legs met a micro-mini skirt that barely covered her ass and her cleavage spilled out of a halter top, begging for appraisal. Her entourage was dressed similarly, trashy and ready for action.

A bachelorette party.

Rigsby blinked innocently and nodded. "Yes?"

The bride dipped her chin and looked up at him in little girl embarrassment. "Um, my girlfriends and I are wondering if you could settle a bet for us. See, I told them that you were every bit as strong as you looked, but my friends," she turned to them slightly and all four started giggling shrilly, nudging each other before she turned back, "they need convincing."

Rigsby squinted in liquored-up incomprehension as the bevy continued to giggle and edge closer to his seat. The bride misread his silence as an invitation to continue.

"See," she trailed her finger down his upper arm, "we just walked in and saw you sitting here. My girlfriends dared me to ask the strongest guy in the room for a demonstration." She leaned forward into his space despite his bewildered expression. Her sickly perfume and heavy makeup made him slightly dizzy. "So here I am."

He leaned back slightly to escape the sugary smell and looks. "I'm sorry," he shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

The bride's smile slipped. She gave a slight huff of exasperation as her finger continued to slide up and down his arm without eliciting any response except confusion. Apparently she was unused to working this hard for a man's interest. She decided to up her game and boldly slid one of her bare legs between his. She leaned all the way into his chest, obliterating the precious space he'd created to avoid her saccharine, overpowering perfume, and whispered directly against his ear.

"I'm talking about being picked up and given a nice, deep kiss so everyone can see how big and strong you are."

Rigsby was terrified. The bar was at his back, he couldn't push away from this pretty, demanding crazy girl as she rubbed herself overtly on his knee and chest and purred bizarre nonsense in his ear. God, the scent of her. It was making him feel claustrophobic. It reminded him of when he'd been eleven years old and had eaten an entire ball of cotton candy before getting onto the spinniest, fastest rollercoaster at the fair. It had made him so sick, the bile at the back of his throat had a cloying, sugary taste of doom. The cloud that this chick enveloped him in had the same effect. He put his hands on her shoulders with the hope of easing her off of him.

"Look," he began, trying not to push her slim body too forcefully. "I'm sure you're lovely and all, but—,"

"But what, baby?" A smoky voice caught everyone's attention, the girls and Rigsby turning around to see its owner.

Rigsby saw divine intervention. The bachelorette party saw a disgustingly pretty redhead who called their prey 'baby' and eyed them all with cool indifference.

Her gaze, no longer glassy with booze, sized each girl up individually before dismissing them in turn. Each girl felt it. It was like being passed over by a livestock judge; each cow measured and found wanting. No blue ribbons for them.

She turned her eyes back to the dark hottie at the bar, their odd color sparkling with humor. "What are you waiting for? Pick me up and kiss me so these nice girls can see how strong you are."

Rigsby grinned and lunged off his seat, scooping her up in his arms and claiming her lips with his own. His inhaled deeply and groaned, deepening their kiss. Christ, she smelled like wildflowers in wide, open spaces. She smelled like river water. She smelled like walks in the snow. And she tasted sweeter than a tequila sunrise. He growled possessively and clutched her tighter. She purred into his mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck, teasing his hair between her fingers and pulling him impossibly closer.

Their embrace was loud and clear: _We'd make love right here on this bar if we could, everyone else can beat it_.

The bride, after watching the couple attack each other avidly, turned to her friends and snorted. "Let's get out of here. I'm bored."

The other girls took one moment too long as they watched Grace with envy, deep in the arms of a _very_ strong man, before they turned and followed their leader out into the night.

Grace, still wasted despite her momentary appearance of cool, moaned loudly against his lips and tugged at him impatiently, the girls already forgotten.

Rigsby finally broke the kiss and stared at her in awe. "That was so awesome," he whispered hotly, his fingers spreading out across her back and under her thighs.

Thinking he meant the kiss, Grace nodded impatiently and whimpered. "More," she demanded, not caring that they were in a crowded bar. Right now, her lowered inhibitions were informing her that his clothes needed to be torn off and his body ravished.

"No, I mean those girls," he jutted his chin towards the door before bringing his face down to hers again. "You were so freakin' hot!"

Grace squinted. Why were they still talking? "Fuck them," she spat with uncharacteristic venom. She pinned him with a look of half-crazed possession.

"You're _mine_."

She crashed her lips into his again, wordlessly preaching to the converted that he did indeed belong to her.


	22. Blender

**A/N**: To the other chick who pushed me over the top, who _had_ to be unruly and volunteer a bizarre string of nouns for me to choose from. Cameron Fry (aka deceptivecadence), this one's for you.

* * *

**Blender**

"Fuck!" Grace slammed her fists into her countertop as she screamed as loud as her upbringing would allow. The impact hurt more than she'd bargained for and she was glad. The sting in her bunched fingers was welcome. It gave her a momentary distraction from her predicament.

Her hideous, unfair predicament.

Tears stung her eyes as she slowly sank to her kitchen floor. She swiped at them with injured fingers and sniffed loudly, huddled against the cabinets.

_Job or Wayne? Job or Wayne? Job or Wayne? Job or Wayne?_

God, she was so sick of thinking about it. In one way or another, she'd _been_ thinking about it for a year and a half, first as an amusing hypothetical, now as a conundrum that guaranteed to leave her miserable no matter what.

For so long, it had been easy to slip by unnoticed. Minelli gave Lisbon a long leash and asked relatively few questions. Lisbon, after some saber-rattling, gave them her unofficial blessing. Everybody was cool with it. So cool with it in fact that Grace had even imagined them as their own little Corleone Family, with their tight-knit understandings and personal favors. And Lisbon was Marlon Brando, tough but kind in her allowances.

All obliterated. Hightower had taken over the Family.

Grace sniffed again.

"I'm hungry," she muttered to her empty apartment. _That's right_, she thought. _Get up and do something fucking useful. _

She stood up and marched to her fridge, yanking open the bottom drawer and pulling out every piece of fruit she could find. Juggling them all in one arm, she slammed the door harder than she meant to.

She tossed it all on the counter and grabbed a banana from it's little hammock and threw it on the pile. As she began to chop madly, her busy hands made her feel a little better. Inertia under normal circumstances irked her. Under high stress, clawing out her own hair was preferable to doing nothing at all.

So the banana was sliced. The apple was chopped. The kiwi was skinned. The peach pitted. The orange was wedged and the raisins were…well, nothing. She piled their little body parts high and grabbed her blender.

Backhanding her tears again, she began to throw them in violently.

The apple pieces first. _These are me_, she thought savagely, chucking them hard and making them collide against the sides.

The banana slices. _Wayne. Baby, I love you so much that I ache. In you go. _

The kiwi next. _My job. My life goal and my center. My purpose.  
_

The peach. _Hightower. So far from a peach that I'd laugh if I wasn't crying._

The orange slices. _The choice. You tart, pulpy little bastard. _

The raisins. _You're just raisins. Get in and shut up! _

She tossed in some yoghurt, slapped on the top and angrily smashed the Pulverize button. Her underutilized sadist watched with glee as her dinner and the metaphorical pieces of her life disintegrated into mushy beige goop.

Apple. Banana. Kiwi. Peach. Orange. Raisins.

Once unique and defined, now hopelessly fused together. There was no separating them, the smoothie was made and the damage was done. She hit Stop.

"Join the club," she taunted the smoothie in the blender. "Think you've got problems? Think getting liquefied in a blender makes yours the saddest story in the house?"

She resisted the urge to choke the glass pitcher attached to the base. That stupid smoothie had no idea what pain was. Hell, its troubles were over. As she pulled a glass roughly from the drying rack and popped the blender top she swore again at the contents.

"You have no _fucking _idea!" she shrieked as she poured her concoction into her glass. "It doesn't matter that I can't take out the fucking peach in you! Or the fucking _orange_!"

But it mattered with her. If only, oh _if only_ the peach and the orange could be removed from her own goopy situation. If only she could somehow reach into the blender of her life and extract Hightower and The Choice before the blades starting whizzing. She would have happily replaced them with Strawberry Lisbon and Grapefruit Unofficial Permission.

She took a swig of her smoothie and coughed. Her anger was causing her throat to constrict.

Or maybe it was just the taste of peach and orange.


	23. Dirty

**A/N**: To the delightful smut hounds who review my non-dirty stories very politely, and then promptly demand explosive sex. It's like having a hilarious patron who nods appreciatively at portraits, but then has a huge collection of erotica, like phallic chess sets and statues of Greek gods disguised as swans ravishing hot chicks. I love you guys! This is a continuation to _Drastic_. (P.S. I'll be gone for a week. Review me hard. I like it hard. Oh, baby. Uh!)

**Dirty**

"Baby, I—woah! Slow down! Grace, this really isn't the place for—,"

"Stop. Talking." Grace pushed him through the back alley of the bar and attacked him with more ferocity that usual. Jose Cuervo had control tonight and she wasn't about to argue with the man. She locked her arms around Rigsby's neck as she kissed him hard and without apology. Through her drunken haze, she could feel the filthy grit of the alley under her boots and, wanting to escape it, she hiked up her skirt and used her freed legs to shamelessly climb up her boyfriend.

Rigsby was nearly torn in half as the gentleman in him wanted to stop this immediately, call a cab and take her somewhere clean and quiet and, most of all, private. But at the same time, he was exhilarated that a drunken babe was practically raping him in a grimy back alleyway. The smell of stagnant puddles and wet cardboard filled his nose right before her sweet, clean scent overtook it and made him feel even drunker than he already was.

He groaned as her knees gripped his hips, automatically slipping his hands under her thighs to support her as she ravaged his mouth with her delicious tongue.

"Baby," he panted harshly, grunting with surprise as his back hit the opposite wall. "Lemme take you home. We can't do this here. You're drunk."

She pulled back sharply, indignation snapping in her inebriated glare. "You got me drunk. You got me horny. I'm not waiting to go home." She surged forward and sucked hungrily on his neck. "Fuck me. Right here."

His control snapped at her dirty little mouth and he growled angrily, spinning them and pressing her back into the wet brick wall. He rubbed his body roughly against hers, taking advantage of her pinned position and create bone-melting friction between two sets of clothes. He yanked her chin up and licked his way up her throat, muttering feverishly the whole time.

"Fucking a drunk girl in an alley," he rebuked himself out loud, skimming kisses over her jaw. "I never would…'s wrong…cheap…illegal…Christ, you're so dangerous."

Grace moaned hotly as his hands worked their way up her skirt and stroked her through her underwear. She clawed at the wall for leverage that wasn't there before she settled for sinking her nails into his shoulders. She squeezed the muscles through his shirt and gasped appreciatively. "Sexy man," she said unthinkingly. "All of those girls wanted you." She keened as he ripped her panties at the crotch and grunted loudly at her words. She leveled her drunken gaze at him, smirking with pleasure. "But I get you. Me. _Memememe_!"

She reached between them and cupped his tightly, rubbing him in rough circles and grinning as he hissed with need. He yanked her hands away and she cried out with disappointment, but it quickly turned into a mewl of delight as he ripped his pants open.

He kissed her savagely before pulling back. "You want a drunk fuck outside a bar, huh, baby?"

She nodded desperately. "From you, yes. Please."

He chuckled darkly. "My polite little sweetheart," he positioned himself and grinned. "Hold onto me."

She tightened her grip and he thrust himself deep into her soaking wet body. "_YES_!" Grace nearly screamed, the tequila loosening her throat as well as her location standards.

"Quiet!" he hissed as he rammed deep. She moaned in satisfaction as her throbbing core widened around him. Oh God, he felt so unbelievably good. Forgetting her sweeter whispers of affection, Grace poured forth a litany of dirty inner thoughts.

"Never had a man as big as you," she admitted, too drunk to hear herself. Her eyes rolled up as he pummeled her with his hard strokes. "Never been cock hungry until you. Wanna fuck all the time. Want you to bang me a hundred times a day. Fuck fuck fuck _fuck_!" She broke off and screamed in pleasure.

Even for Grace, it was hardcore. She wasn't shy when it came to talking during sex, but as Rigsby drove harder and harder, filthy words were caressing him in a pretty little voice and making him crazy.

"That's it, baby. Tell me you want it," he groaned loudly. Her boot heels were digging hard into his ass and he fuckin' loved it. Almost as much as he loved the tight softness surrounding his dick and the biting sharpness of her nails in his shoulders. It all contrasted harshly with his disgust at their surroundings and his loathing that some bar tender tossing bottles would walk out and find them. Not that Rigsby could have stopped, even if the guy pointedly tapped his foot and cleared his throat loudly at them.

Rigsby would simply shoot him. Pure and simple. Once he was buried in Grace's gorgeous body, bullets were the quickest answer to an interruption. No one who'd ever touched her could stop halfway through. He was positive about that.

Now she was keening and sobbing as he pushed her ever closer to release. Knowing how crazy it drove her, he bossed her even closer to it.

"Kiss me, goddammit," he growled at her.

She trilled some outrageously sexy sound that he'd never heard before as she did as she was told. He groaned, twitching inside her as the noise spurred him into a more violent pace. She pressed her full lips to his, seeking his tongue with hers and rubbing it flirtingly. He tasted limes, booze and mischief.

Then she bit his lip as she came hard around him. The salt of blood entered the mix and sent him into an animalistic howl as he crested and broke inside of her. The sound bounced into the narrow passageway and echoed into the street as he roared loud and long, jetting himself dry into her sweet, eager body.

"_Yes_," she purred loudly, straining back against the wall, luxuriating in the feel of his seed spilling deep inside her. "I fucking love how hard you come," she whispered breathlessly.

Rigsby panted violently against her, leaning more of his weight than he would have done sober as he came down. Grace bit her lips and hummed appreciatively. She was drunk, and she was hazily post-coital, but it didn't stop her from enjoying the fact that she'd made him lose control. Again.

Trembling and uneasy on his feet, he loosened her hold and set her down gently. "Fuck, Grace," he murmured softly, his breath coming out in uneven hitches.

She grinned in sated pleasure. "That you did, baby."

He continued to crowd her against the wall, resting his forehead against hers and shaking his head gently back and forth. "You make me so…so…"

"Law breaky?" she chirped tipsily.

He chuckled ruefully and smiled happily at her, his eyes shutting against her beautiful features glowing in the semi-darkness. "I lived such a neat and tidy life before, sweetheart," he confessed softly. "But you? You're the whirlwind I never knew I always wanted." He nuzzled her nose softly with his, whispering in awe. "In the best way imaginable, you get me so freakin' _dirty_."


	24. Dangerous

**A/N**: Because I'm still feeling angsty, but I'm sick of thinking about them breaking up. Here's a new outlet for my sadness. Word props to moonakahuna.

* * *

**Dangerous**

"Yoo-hoo," Jane crooned softly at the dim screen in front of him. "Come out, come out."

The office was dark. It very well should be at 2:43am. Jane sat hunched over his neglected computer, wiling away the early morning hours the way he almost always did. Hunting. His prey was being elusive, as usual. In fact, he hadn't glimpsed hide nor hair of him since he'd slaughtered Bosco's team and killed his secretary accomplice. But Jane knew. Oh, indeed he knew.

Their constant link was the internet. It was the one place they could frequent together. Meet together. And neither would be at risk. Jane enjoyed the idea of hunting for the man in chat rooms and searching for him in blogs. He knew Red John would enjoy the idea of the chase. He was certain the man was out there, leaving little clues. Taunting him in disguised Lonely Hearts ads and used equipment classifieds. He was sure Red John would think he was being cute. Jane was sure he'd be caught through his conceited distain for the police.

And he had all the time in the world.

So when he found a chat room member with the name Ron Hedj in a discussion on capital punishment on the Project Justice page, his face broke into its trademark smirk. He clicked the IM icon.

Trickane: _Late night, my friend?_

He held his breath and waited.

Ron Hedj: _Of course. You?_

Trickane: _Always. _

Ron Hedj: _Very vigilant of you. I'm impressed. While you're here, would you like to join the discussion? I imagine you have some very concise opinions on the death penalty. I would enjoy hearing them immensely._

Trickane: _Later perhaps. I'd hate to interrupt your trawling. Isn't that why you're here? Looking for new recruits to carry about your bidding? Lonely, frightened, desperate people looking for help? For love? Must be rich pickings._

Ron Hedj: _You wound me. I choose many of them with you in mind. They've done well so far, do you not agree? They've fooled hundreds of people, but you? For them to have fooled you is very gratifying. I mean that as a compliment. _

Trickane: _Fooled? Come now. Temporarily deceived, perhaps. They can never hide for long. That's the trouble when drafting sociopaths. They're often more obvious than they think they are. _

Ron Hedj: _So very true. Good help is hard to find, I'm sure you can understand._

Trickane: _If I may make a request, could your next pawn have a bit more…how should I say?...pizzazz? I'm growing bored with the Red John propoganda and mad-eyed oaths of loyalty. "He promised me this, he magically fixed that, etc." When your next inevitable patsy ends up in front of me, can you make sure they're a bit more witty? Urbane, even? God forbid I get an interesting conversationalist for a change._

Ron Hedj: ………_a person more to your liking. Interesting. Perhaps I have been remiss in my…pawns…as you put it. I could argue I've been equally remiss with my victims._

Jane froze. Their banter, mere circling as Jane tried desperately to gain access to his nemesis' mind, took a decidedly sharp turn. His fingers hovered, unable to type.

Ron Hedj: _Ah. I see that captured your attention. Yes, perhaps you're right. Perhaps I need to find someone with a bit more strength a character. A bit more fight. Lisbon, perhaps?_

Jane inhaled sharply. His fingers were still as stone.

Ron Hedj: _Yes, Teresa Lisbon would have plenty of fight in her. A worthy prize. Or perhaps Kimball Cho? Tell me, what do you think it would take to harness Cho? A great deal, I'd think. It would much easier to drive over to his apartment on Continental Avenue, slip into his kitchen window and shoot him in his north-facing bedroom. _

Jane sat helpless. He'd known that Red John would know everything. Absolutely everything. His team, their addresses, their routines, hell even their favorite foods. But somehow he'd hoped against hope that it would never surface. Somehow, his beloved team would slip past this monster unnoticed. He had prayed Red John would simply bring the fight to him. Now, the murdering bastard was tormenting him with the obvious truth. He knew everything. And he could do anything. He watched in horror as the next text popped up.

Ron Hedj: _But no. Lisbon and Cho are soldiers. As guilty as their deaths would make you feel, they see this danger as their duty. If I took them, there might be a small comfort for you, knowing their strength, knowing they fought me until the end. Knowing that they would stay strong. _

_No. To truly get to you, I would have to take Van Pelt and Rigsby._

Jane's heart went subzero at their written names. The names of two young people, so wide-eyed and sweet. So trusting of much of the world. Red John was right. Their names were not soldiers' names.

Ron Hedj: _I can almost hear your thoughts. So young. So happy and in love. Even now, Rigsby is with her. They're asleep, tangled together in Van Pelt's rather messy bedroom. They had pasta for dinner. He kissed the back of her neck as she cooked. They sat on her leather sofa for hours watching tv, talking, kissing. They're so beautiful together._

_….I think I'd kill Van Pelt first. _

Jane slammed his fists on either side of the keyboard.

Ron Hedj: _Hmmmm. Perhaps I wouldn't even kill Rigsby at all. I'll simply let him watch. Tie him up carefully. Couldn't risk a big man like him getting loose, could I? Sit him down all comfortable and drag a knife through his true love. Over and over and over and over…. I could turn him into a man like you. A playmate for you. Would you like that?_

"Fuck you," Jane spat low.

Ron Hedj: _The beauty is that I'd kill him anyway and not even touch him. He'd die so painfully. A little each day. Van Pelt's blood everywhere. He'd never see anything else. Except maybe you. He might see you. Every time he looked at you, he'd know you brought me into his life and killed his woman. Simply to get to you._

_Grace. His perfect match. Murdered. Because of you._

Jane slammed the laptop shut. The motor immediately quieted. Ron disappeared. Trembling, Jane lowered his head into his hands. His team. His friends. They were alive simply by the grace of a maniac.

He wanted Jane to suffer. He wanted him screaming in agony. And he knew it was the easiest thing in the world to accomplish. Don't kill the strong. Don't target the experienced or the wise.

Kill the love. Find those weakened by love. Use it against them. Destroy it forever. Jane moaned softly. Rigsby and Van Pelt. The young and in love.

Tears splashed the closed laptop.


	25. Play

**A/N**: Ah, plotless smut. I've missed you.

**Play**

A tiny blue disk flipped several inches into the air before arcing perfectly into the cup. Rigsby looked up in triumph.

"Dirty secret," he chose.

Grace, annoyed that she was loosing, exhaled loudly, eyes rolling. "Fine," she conceded. "I…" she looked down shyly. "I love your voice during sex. I love how rough and angry it sounds." She blushed and ventured a quick look up. "You never sound like that anywhere else."

Rigsby grinned, pleased with her confession, and gestured to the scatter of red and blue disks on the floor. "Your turn."

Grace angled her chip over one of her red Tiddlywinks pieces and gauged the distance carefully to the cup. She was already losing badly. Unfortunately for her, Rigsby had excellent aim. She sized the cup up carefully before flipping the disk closest to her. It jumped in the air with a slight clicking sound right before it landed squarely in the cup.

It was her turn to grin. "Nothin' but net."

He bit his lower lip in amusement. "So? What'll it be? Dirty secret or sexy command?"

She knew what he wanted. When he'd explained his twisted version of Tiddlywinks and Truth or Dare to her at the beginning, it was clear by the way he paused over the words that he preferred the commands. He so obviously wanted her to _make _him do something that he'd slowed down while talking, making sure she caught his drift. She was left with the delicious choice of turning him on or stringing him along. She chose the latter.

"Dirty secret."

She saw his smile turn into amused irritation. "Fine," he huffed. Like he didn't love telling her secrets as well.

He thought a minute, biting the tip of his tongue as he mulled. He finally looked up and smiled. "Jane was right. At our first meal as a team, I _was_ going to ask you to my room. For a drink," he added quickly.

Grace laughed softly. "Just a drink?"

He surprised her by holding her gaze and nodding. "Just a drink. I was embarrassed as hell that he knew that somehow, but I wasn't planning anything sleazy like he suggested. I just…" he chuckled, "I just wanted to talk to you. Alone."

She smiled sweetly. "Then it's not a very dirty secret, is it?"

"Well," he snorted. "I could spice it up for you. Say that I planned to jump you the minute I lured you into my room. Cuff you, strip you, make you call me Daddy."

"Ah," she pointed her index finger. "That's plenty dirty. Entry accepted."

He lowered his head to the carpet, lining up his next shot with one eye as he pressed on a blue disk until it flipped. Grace huffed as it spiraled into the cup sure as if it were on a string.

"Cheater," she grumbled.

"Liar. I think I'll do a command for that," he rumbled at her.

"Oh, command me, Master. I'm at your every whim," she simpered sarcastically.

His chin lowered as he leered at her. "Undress me."

Her brow arched. "All the way?"

He nodded. "All the way."

She'd seen the man naked a hundred times, yet she blushed.

She crawled over to him and began sliding his shirt buttons, one by one, through the holes. She let her hands flitter down his exposed abdomen before pushing the fabric off his shoulders. The slide of his skin under hers felt so good, she let the pads of her fingers linger along the hard planes of his back as she continued to face him.

"Hmmmm." His chest rumbled deeply, his eyes falling shut as she pet him. "You can kiss me if you want."

She smiled and reached for his zipper. "One command at a time."

She opened his pants, tugging at them playfully until she had them down his legs and over his bare feet. Sitting in his boxers, he opened his eyes and gave her a devilish grin. "Not quite done yet, baby." He waggled his brows at his underwear and then at her.

Grace smirked. "You sure you wanna play in the buff? Might get chilly."

"Off."

She shrugged and crawled up to his hips. "Yessir."

Inch by inch, she pulled his boxers down. She couldn't help but tease him a little, her lips following their path down his powerfully stacked legs. When she reached his knee, she let her nails ghost behind it, getting a twitch from one of his many ticklish spots.

"Now who's cheating?" he gruffed at her.

Wide-eyed, she placed an innocent kiss on his kneecap. "I'm just doing what I'm told. One naked boyfriend, as ordered." Her hands swept out, indicating to all of him.

He kept his eyes on her and smiled. "Your turn now."

Grace, trying like hell to ignore the Chippendale hottie on her floor, crouched low, choosing one of her red little buddies and preparing to rocket him into space. She felt Wayne's gaze burning into her as she lined up the shot and pressed down.

_Pink!_

One more disc jumped in the cup.

She turned to him in lofty victory. "Boom, baby."

Rigsby chuckled, lying back on his ass and hands, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. "Whatcha want for it?"

"Oh, after this?" She gestured to his current state of undress. "You're so getting commanded."

His eyes sparkled. "Do your worst."

She laughed and crawled towards him again, a slow, feline skulk, padding her way up his legs, passed his hips, until she was nose to nose with him.

"You have to make your next shot with my hands all over you."

He exhaled excitedly against her lips. Her tongue shot out and struck his mouth before zipping back in. "Think you got the skills?"

He pressed his lips together, his own tongue sliding out and tasting where hers had been. "Oh, cutie pie. That shot is all mine."

With excruciating slowness, she walked two fingers up his chest. "I hear a lot of talking, buster."

His body was hardening underneath her. His eyes were darkening with each step her fingers took. When they tripped themselves and slid down his stomach to his rapidly building erection, he gasped raggedly. She leaned into his ear. "Make the shot while I touch you or I'll torture this poor thing to death." She squeezed his steely cock as she spoke.

"Oh, God, just keep doing that," he moaned into her hair, already forgetting about their game. Grace laughed and loosened her hold, making him snarl with annoyance.

"This ain't a cheap grope, baby. Line up your shot and take it," she paused and pressed a little promise into his lips. "If you make it, you get to decide where I go from here."

Grace could give seminars on motivational techniques. Rigsby was up, shaking his lust-fogged head, and crouching low to line up a new disc, all while she worked him furiously from behind.

Her slim hand, snaked between his thighs and pumping him, nearly blinded him with pleasure. He blinked profusely, intent on his goal.

Grace, never one to let anyone win, stroked his back with her free hand and made all kinds of kittenish, throaty sounds as she tightened and strove around his length. Fuck, was it distracting. Rigsby closed his eyes for a moment, shutting out her delectable ministrations, before opening his eyes hard and clear. He pressed down on the disc and it zinged straight home.

_Pink!_

Grace was on her back in a flash.

Rigsby had whirled around and flattened her before she even heard the disc hit the cup, but her clothes were off in seconds and his tongue in her mouth didn't allow for arguing the results.

Little blue and red discs scattered everywhere and pressed into their bare skin.

She clasped her thighs around his hips, nudging him closer, until suddenly he was pressing into her entrance and surging in all the way.

Grace gasped, her hands flying to his back. _Sooooo big._

Rigsby swore and did his damnedest to keep his strokes controlled. As much as she screamed when he did it, he just couldn't let himself start pounding away at her. He needed to savor this. He needed to process this carefully, forming each memory of their lovemaking with the same permanent precision as one would chisel a sculpture.

But Grace had no time for the process.

She pushed his body up slightly until he hovered above her before she smiled wickedly, gripped his ass, planted her feet and began driving upwards frantically.

"Yes!" she hissed wildly, her hips pounding rapidly against his. "Need it hard, want you hard. Oh, God, baby. _Yes!_"

Rigsby's arms rippled under the weight of his body and the drag of her hands. He groaned harshly, loving how savagely she worked herself underneath him.

"Love it when you fuck me, Grace," he panted, his wide eyes holding hers. "Love how bad you want me."

She keened and arched, losing her rhythm and gaining it back again. One hand left his ass and gripped his jaw, her fingers soothing over the scratchy surface. "So bad," she crooned unthinkingly. "I always want you so bad."

He lost himself and pounded down hard. Grace flailed beneath him and sobbed with pleasure. She went rigid. Rigsby roared with delight as once again, she came screaming with his dick buried inside her. His heart's greatest desire made a reality for the millionth time.

He seized as his release tore through him, splintering his body as it poured desperately into hers. _Her_! his entire being wailed. _Perfect her! Only her! Forever her!_

He shook hard. She trembled slightly. He sank quickly on top of her, his arms bracing above her shoulders to keep his weight off her. He felt the strange, cold press of plastic in his forearms. He lifted one and both of the giggled. Several discs were stuck to him.

"How many are on my back would you guess?" Grace smiled up at him.

"Twenty-three," he guessed randomly, shaking his arm before settling on even more chips. "So who won?"

Grace picked up a single disc and rolled it along his spine, it's tiny edge making a white line in its wake. "I've already forgotten what we were playing. Daddy."


	26. ICE

**A/N**: For all you fine non-American or non-native English speakers, ICE means In Case of Emergency. We put it on our phones for emergency crews. I've included a small shout-out to the patron saint of lovers. Her story fits our pair. Strange idea word props going to lilhammer. I like, I like.

**ICE**

The phone rang three times before Grace flailed upright in her bed, groping for her cell phone in the dark.

"Grace Van Pelt." She grumbled it automatically.

"Hello?"

"Yes? Who is this, please?" Her eyes fluttered. God, she hated it when wrong numbers called in the middle of the night.

"Ma'am, this is the ER at Saint Dwynwen's Hospital. Are you the emergency contact for a Wayne Rigsby?"

Her eyes popped wide, coming into instant focus. "Wayne Rigsby?"

"Yes," the woman said. "We found your number on his cell phone under ICE?"

Silence.

"Ma'am?"

"What's happened? Why is he in the hospital?"

The woman must have felt a chill at her voice. She paused, as if she was shivering.

"Ma'am, we found Mr. Rigsby unconscious in the street. It appears he's been attacked. Multiple lacerations and deep bruising. Possible concussion. His alcohol level is alarmingly high. Would it be possible for you to come in?"

Grace was already shimmying into her jeans while she held the phone. "I'll be there in seven minutes." She killed the call and barely managed to lock her door as she flew out of her apartment.

She was in the hospital's parking lot before she even realized she'd been driving.

She ran through the ER doors and straight the reception desk, gasping for air and wheezing his name. The receptionist pointed to the waiting room. "You'll have to sit in there."

Grace reached into her purse and yanked out her badge, jamming it under the woman's nose. "Give me his room number or get me your boss."

She got the number.

She loped down the hall until she found it. Slipping into the darkened space, she closed the door and leaned against it. Across the room was the only other occupant, unconscious on a hospital bed, his face and forearms littered with small cuts. The larger gashes had been bandaged over. His lip was slightly split. She grimaced. With older brothers, Grace had seen worse. Still, split lips were nothing to sniff at. They hurt and they took a long time to heal. His head was turned towards her. He was wearing a pale blue hospital gown and the sheets had been pulled up to his waist. He was going to be so annoyed when he woke up. He _hated _hospitals. Grace knew that if he's been awake when the ambulance rolled up, he would have insisted they leave him on the pavement, barking that he'd get up when he was damn good and ready.

She took a slow breath and walked quietly across the space.

She lifted a chair, minding not to scrape it along the linolium, and set it at his bedside. All thoughts about finding his doctor or informing a nurse she was here disappeared as she settled in and carefully put her hand in his.

"Oh, sweetheart," she murmured his old pet name out of habit. "What have you done to yourself?"

She bit her lips in worry as she looked him over. No heart monitor. No IV. No hooks or tubes of any sort. Just patched up and sleeping. Thank God for small favors, she supposed.

His wallet sat on the table next to his bed alongside his phone. Grace knew this already, given that they had his name and his cell when they called her. Obviously not a robbery. And he'd been drinking, they said. She noticed that the hand in hers was raw along the knuckles. A few were skinned pretty badly.

She was a cop and this used to be her man.

It didn't take a genius to work out what had happened.

"You went looking for this, didn't you?" she asked his sleeping body. She lightly ran her fingertips over his hand. "You wanted a fight."

She closed her eyes as her barely-healed wound reopened slightly. The hand in hers was good at fighting. Skilled. But its owner had no particular taste for it. He much preferred using them in far more pleasurable pursuits. She'd lost count of how many times these fingers had twined with hers, gripping her as he held her hands above her head while they made love. He adored how they're bodied aligned as they moved and strained against one another.

In bed, they were the same height.

She softly traced the non-injured skin, skirting the cuts as she caressed him. She blocked the memory of how wildly she loved these hands.

"Grace?" Her name wasn't a soft one to begin with. In his voice, heavy with booze and pain, crackling with a parched tongue, it sounded harshly serrated.

She looked up and smiled softly. "Hey, killer."

His eyes were cracked open. His mouth worked painfully as he took in the split in his lip. "Fuck, am I in the hospital?"

She snorted kindly. "Yep." Her fingers kept ghosting over his hand. She knew she should stop, that it was inappropriate now, but the digits continued to touch him anyway. Stroking him like this had always soothed him, and Grace was a nurturing soul. He was in pain. She hated to see others in pain. So she petted him like she would have not so long ago. It was only their hands, anyway. What was the harm?

"They found you on the street. They found my number on your cell under ICE." She paused and smiled at him sheepishly. "You should change that, once you're out of here."

He snorted, not so kindly. "There's no one else to call."

Surprised at his tone, her fingers stilled. "Come on, Wayne. You should list a family member. Or Lisbon. What if something serious happens to you next time? Your family should know. So should work."

His face was like his hands. It was built to express pleasure. The bitterness that settled across his features looked unnatural. "Grace, I've told you enough for you to know I don't want my family involved in my life. I don't care if I'm dead. I don't want them here. As for work," he snorted again and looked away. "I don't need Lisbon seeing me like this." A thought struck him and he turned back to Grace, his eyes widening. "Please don't tell her. I don't want her to recommend me for a psych evaluation."

Grace, powerless against his fear, nodded slightly. "Okay. I won't say anything." Her fingers, forever wanting to calm, continued to trace the lines of his hand. "What will you tell them tomorrow?" She gestured to his face.

"Boxing," he rasped, shrugging slightly.

"Jane will know," she chided gently.

"Fuck Jane." His anger tore more stitches open in her poorly healing heart.

She removed her hand and swallowed the lump in her throat. "I should go." She rose to leave.

"No!" He shot forward enough to reclaim her hand before the pain made him settle back again, but not without his prize held securely between his fingers.

"Wayne," she sighed tiredly. "I'm making you worse. You're mad at me. I should go and let you get some sleep."

"You're not making me worse," he avoided her second sentence. "And I want to get out of here. Please?" His hand tightened around hers, making her wince as she imagined it hurt him. "Please take me home?"

The plea struck her hard. Not so long ago, 'home' didn't mean one particular place to them. It meant either her apartment or his, the word 'home' applied to whichever one they happened to occupy at the same time. The idea was still ingrained in her. The sight of her injured (ex) lover, holding her hand and begging to go home filled her with the primal urge to tuck him into a warm bed and cuddle into his side, ready to fetch him anything he needed as he mended. A glass of water. Bandages. Whispers that she loved him and she was there for him, always, and he was never alone.

Her chest felt swollen. She spoke carefully, lessening the pressure word by word. "No more fights. Promise me now or I'm leaving you here."

He nodded, swallowing painfully. "No more fights, baby. I promise."

Her old pet name spoken out of habit. God, it hurt so bad to hear something so sweet.

She nodded back. "Okay then."

She checked him out. She drove him home. By 'home', she decided on her place. She just couldn't leave him, try as she might. He was so miserable. So hurt. Her instincts won over her better judgment. He didn't say anything as he sat quietly in the passenger's seat, just closed his eyes and tried not to sway with the car's turns.

She fed him Tylenol when they got inside. She pulled out one of his tees that he'd left behind for him to sleep in. She eased him into her bed, knowing he wasn't seriously injured, but wanting him to know she was there to help. He sighed gratefully as his head hit her pillow.

She flipped the lights off and darkness filled her room.

Grace slipped into her tank top and flannel pants, steering clear of her usual shorts. She couldn't run the risk of their long legs braiding together, skin to skin, as they always did of their own volition. She carefully slipped between the sheets next to him, making sure they didn't touch.

"Are you okay? Need anything else?" she whispered to him.

Silence.

"Wayne?"

"I hurt."

"Oh," she lifted a bit, squinting at him, waiting for her eyes to adjust. "They said you didn't need painkillers. You want another Tylenol?"

He sniffed softly. Suddenly a warm hand closed over hers and pulled it gently until it settled flat over his heart.

"I hurt here, Grace."

A shuddering, broken exhalation left her. "Oh, sweetie. Please don't."

"I'm hurting, baby. Please. Make it stop. I need to know you still love me."

Tears broke onto her cheeks and she cried softly. The great big heart that loved her beat steadily under her palm. "It won't help."

Still holding her, his other hand plucked at her gently. "Hold me? Please, Grace. I'm sorry the hospital called you, but I'm so happy that you came. Nothing has to change, but I hurt so bad for you. Please?"

She hated when others were in pain.

She wasn't crazy about her own pain either.

Tears still falling, she pulled his arm up and settled snugly into his side, letting it fall along her back. It knew the way. His warm hand held her upper arm. A throaty sigh escaped him as he pulled her head over to rest on his chest, where it always used to. When he was wrapped up in her to his liking, he whispered in the darkness.

"Tell me."

"Wayne…"

"Tell me, Grace."

She shivered against him and gave in. Why not, in the end? It wasn't exactly a secret, now was it?

"I love you."

He inhaled sharply, his chest rising under her head. He let it go slowly.

"And I'm not changing my ICE."


	27. Tango

**A/N**: An entry by Kelzywolf. Prolly not what you had in mind, ay babe?

**Tango**

"People, I'm getting tired of this!" The instructor screamed at his panting class. "When I say _attack_, I goddamn well mean it. You turn to your opponent and you hit him! Or her! You use every move you've got to get them on the ground! I see anymore pussyfooting shit and I swear to God a square dance is going to break out. Pair off!"

Cadet Grace Van Pelt turned instantly to face her next rival as the outer circle of people moved to the right. New challenger. New set of information to take in on how best to defeat them. She took a deep breath, centering herself. She was exhausted. They'd been fighting a sort of boxing/self defense style for over an hour now. The outer ring of people were covered in protective gear. It was the inner circle's job to subdue them. By any means necessary.

A lot of cadets were having trouble with that kind of overt aggression. It was the instructor's job to beat their timidity out of them. That's why the inner circle of first year cadets were paired against third years. They were stronger. Unafraid of confrontation. They were already soldiers.

The outer circled completed its rotation. Grace groaned inwardly as her new opponent filled her vision. She'd seen this guy move his way through the circle. No one had succeeded in knocking him down. Physically, he was the last guy she'd ever want to fight hand-to-hand. A big dude. Tall. Solid. And unfortunately, very aware of his dimensions and how best to use them. She took another breath and rolled her shoulders back, ready to become his next defeated foe.

"I'm Wayne, by the way. Wayne Rigsby. You're Grace?"

His voice startled her. She stopped analyzing his body for weaknesses and looked up into his eyes. She was startled even further. He had a sweet face.

"Um…yeah. Grace Van Pelt. Hi."

"Attack!"

Grace disappeared and the soldier in training roared to life. She planted her feet and struck quickly with both fists. Rigsby was ready. He took both hits to his padded chest, causing no more damage than gently lobbed snowballs. He shot his weight forward, forcing her to step back. She grunted in frustration and pivoted, side-stepping him and striking again into his unprotected ribs. It knocked the air out of him, but she underestimated how fast he could move.

He lauched sideways, then forward, grabbing her and trapping her in a restraining hold, her back to his chest. The power in his biceps was terrifying. She could tell he wasn't even trying, but even in idleness, they rippled and gunned like a V8 engine. She struggled, but he held fast. She wasn't going anywhere. If Rigsby were a bad guy, she'd be down for the count.

This really pissed her off.

She pulled hard against him, huffing in rage at her captivity. But strength was no longer an option. Time to try something a little unorthodox.

Grace suddenly went limp in his arms, forcing him to hold all of her weight. She heard him inhale in surprise and tighten his hold. Perfect. With the strain off her feet, she used her little-known yoga flexibility and pressed them squarely into the ground before launching straight up.

Rigsby was a strong guy. He bore the force of her legs shooting straight up. Holding onto his arms, her bent legs curled upwards and caught him by the throat, yanking him forwards. The disappearance of his leverage and force of her legs sent them both sprawling into a heap. Grace yelped as over 200 pounds of muscle crashed on top of her. Rigsby bellowed loudly as a first year female cadet succeeded in sending him to the floor.

The room went quiet as Rigsby instantly rolled off of her, worried that their little spill might have hurt her. He tried to get up, but her leg shot out and knocked his out from under him again. Flat on his back, he looked over at her in amazement.

A beautiful woman beamed back at him, her flush cheeks and damp skin radiating gloriously. Panting harshly, she spoke through her grin. "Stay down for a second. I want everyone to see."

He grinned back and threw his arms and legs out wide, illustrating his defeat. "Knocked on my ass by Grace Van Pelt. Someone take a picture."

She bit her lips, liking his playful, unmacho sportsmanship. "Can I buy you a coffee later? For knocking you on your ass?"

She couldn't believe the blush that crept into his cheeks as he got to his feet and offered his hand to her. She took it and stood up, looking shyly into his blue eyes.

"Sure," he answered bashfully. The outer circle rotated once again.

"Hey Grace," he caught her hand as he began to move off.

She turned to him. "Yeah?"

He smiled charmingly. "Thanks for the dance."


	28. Proximity

**A/N**: A little piece here. Care to guess whose POV? And I wrote this because I don't care _how_ normal they're acting. This would still suck. And what's with bringing Owain Yeoman's real life wife to the show this week? First fictional Tiffany, now real Lucy. Are they _trying_ to shove as many women in the path of our ship that aren't Grace? Beat it, non-Graces!

**Proximity**

Do you people have _any_ idea how bad this has gotten?

Do you know how hard it is to work with someone you've seen naked? More importantly, how fucking fantastic they look naked and how many laws should be passed barring them from wearing clothes? Have you ever looked at their face and known that it went so much better with more bare skin than it ever did with a shirt and jacket?

Do you know how hard it is to walk behind them and catch their scent in the air? That scent that used to fill your nose as you lay in their arms? That elusive, addictive essence that settled so wonderfully into your house? Or into your sheets? Or after the fact, when it mocks you and makes you feel so alone that you wash your bedding three times to make sure it's out? But you swear that you can still smell it anyway? And it leaks into your dreams and tortures you there too? You wake up for a fraction of a second convinced that they're sound asleep next to you?

What about touch? I mean, really. Think about the most amazing lover you've ever had. Now imagine your best friend. Now imagine a gorgeous underwear model. Twist all three into one person and imagine they used to outright purr when they got to touch you. Can you imagine the thrill you get from their tactile explorations? Can you imagine the shock of not only you touching them, but them wanting to touch you? Dying to touch you? Is it possible for your ego to orgasm as well as your body? I'm pretty sure it can, knowing what I know now.

I guess what I want to know is, would you want the constant reminder of all that stuff? Would you want daily proof that this person is still beautiful? Still kind and thoughtful? Still so damn sexy that you don't understand where your resistance comes from? And not just every day, but every second? They're right next to you, did I mention that? Like, two desks away. Every key they type, every call they make or receive, every single move they make, it's all right there. For your viewing pleasure. All day, every day.

The visual, olfactory, tactile, even audio memories—the mind-blowing, heartrending memories—are kept fresh by these smaller, lesser examples. Teasers, I guess. But teasing is supposed to be pleasant. These are more like death by a thousand cuts. Each small and stinging on its own, agony when thrown at you simultaneously.

I need space. That's the answer. I need distance.

Precisely the thing that started this whole mess.

I can't have distance.

For the sake of the job, I have to stay close.


	29. Contact

**A/N**: Ses yanked my chain and demanded I pleasure her with a continuation of _Tango_. Since she kinda owns me (at least on an installment plan), I must do as I'm bade.

**Contact**

She checked her watch for the zillionth time as she waited outside the CBI training gym in the bright sunshine. He had caught up to her after their combat training, still thick with padding and with heavy, sweet-smelling sweat pouring off his brow.

She'd felt so embarrassed about her sudden forwardness with him that she'd planned to slink out of class the minute the instructor permitted the students to stop pummeling each other and leave for the day. But long, red hair never made for incognito. He found her easily.

"Hey," he approached shyly as they headed for the locker rooms.

She smiled timidly and blushed, looking down as they walked. "Hey," she greeted.

"So," he began stiltedly, "Um, I don't wanna seem pushy, since we just met and all, but I'd really like to take you up on coffee." He dipped his chin and smiled at the floor. Grace glanced up and saw a small trickle of sweat flow slowly from his temple to his cheek. It followed the crease of his smile as he continued to lower his eyes from hers. Her sudden and completely unbidden desire to lick it off his skin startled her considerably. She was Grace Van Pelt, for god's sake, perpetual safety girl. Erring on the side of caution was her stock in trade. Especially with men. Especially with physically imposing men that she'd met twenty-three minutes ago. She didn't know a thing about this guy outside of his name. So what was her friggin' malfunction if she wanted to lick him like a seven-foot ice cream cone?

But her mouth answered without her.

"Sure." _What?!_ "Um, you wanna get some now? I don't have my Forensics class until three."

She braved a glance and found him grinning boyishly. "Great, yeah. I'll, uh, I'll meet you out front in twenty?"

"Okay."

The headed off to their respective gendered locker rooms to shower and change. Grace skipped washing her hair, which took forever. She also yanked out her seldom-used makeup kit in her bag and applied some foundation and mascara. Looking at herself in the mirror as she carefully swept the brush through her lashes, she fought against her inner feminist, who kept pointing out that she never bothered with makeup after gym sessions. She shushed that old maid and finished the job, running her fingers through her hair in hopes of reigning it into control. No such luck. The drying sweat made it curl and twist wildly, framing her face with helixes of bright red. She preferred it straight and no-nonsense. But twenty minutes wasn't enough time to tame her naturally windswept appearance.

And now she was waiting with growing anxiety for Rigsby to meet her outside. She'd instantly felt a little exposed being the first one there. Boys were known for waiting on girls. The switch had her fidgeting nervously.

"Hey." He came up beside her. She smiled with relief, taking in his jeans and t-shirt. His hair was shiny, no longer from sweat, but from water. His clean skin emitted the wonderfully clean scent of Boy Soap, as Grace thought of it. Not flowery, but fresh and light. His wide, unguarded eyes gazed at her in shy pleasure. Grace, forever skeptical and skittish of strangers, found herself believing in his kindness to the point of trusting her life to it.

She scolded herself immediately. It was impossible to divine such things when you first meet someone. The CBI Academy would be the first to berate her for such blind trust in a total stranger. In her future line of work, it would be horribly naïve to look at a man and trust her life to something as random the wide, supposed sweetness of his blue eyes.

And yet, she smiled warmly.

"So, where do you want to go for coffee? My treat, remember. It's the least I can do," she said as they started to walk.

"I don't mind where we go, really. There's a coffee kiosk next to the administration building. We could grab a drink there. Sit out on the grass." He paused and paired a shrug with his smile. "Ya know, just talk."

That sweetness again. That shy, happy kindness.

They headed off to the other end of the Academy grounds. Just another pair of people amongst thousands of milling cadets taking advantage of the fantastic weather.

As they walked in bashful, awkward silence, a strange, wild feeling came over Grace. Something she'd never felt in all her life. Something, she could only assume, like what the cheerleaders and sorority girls of her earlier years must have felt all the time. A boy was with her. A boy that clearly liked her, despite their limited acquaintance. A boy that, despite that limited acquaintance, she _really_ liked back. The certainty she felt about his kindness was absolute, she knew it as surely as she knew his handsomeness.

Both were equally obvious to her. And their presence was effecting her in a way that no boy in her past ever had.

She just…well…she just…_wanted_ him.

This feeling exhilarated her with its newness. More importantly, it controlled her next few words and actions.

"Wayne?"

"Yeah, Grace?" he answered brightly, turning towards her as she slowed their pace.

"Um…I need to…do…something."

His face instantly fell. "Oh." He looked at the ground between them. "Okay. I understand. Can at least get your num—,"

She turned swiftly into the impressive wall of his body and cupped his cheeks in her palms. She looked up into his surprised face. "I need to kiss you. Is that okay?"

Astonishment flashed across his face. Then, to her infinite satisfaction, understanding. He felt it, too. He saw something similar in her, something innate and obvious only to him. The astonishment remained; he was clearly amazed that she'd skipped ahead, even though he found it as natural as breathing to kiss this woman he didn't even know.

He dropped his face closer to hers and whispered, "I'm so glad you asked."

He took her by the hand and pulled her quickly to an enormous oak tree about ten feet away. Rounding to the side with the fewest people, he backed against it and pulled her into his arms, leaning back and encouraging her to trust her weight to him as he dipped down and caught her lips with his.

Grace tensed at the immediacy and intimacy of his kiss, but was quickly pulled under as his mouth moved sensuously over hers. His shyness was suddenly gone. His hands splayed wide over her back, supporting her against him. Holding her like he'd lost her in another life and found her again in this one.

And he kissed her like he was the devil himself trying to win her soul.

And she fell.

She kissed him back, melting into the circle of his embrace, allowing her breasts to press against him as her hands slid up his shoulders and neck. She teased along his hairline before sinking her nails into his dark hair and scratching them lightly across his scalp. He moaned into their kiss, his tongue sweeping gently over her lips, gently asking for entry.

She opened herself to him and gave him a breathy hum of pleasure as he deepened their contact. He tasted phenomenal. He balanced perfectly between soft and firm. She could tell from the pressure of his lips that he wanted her badly, but also respected her and didn't want to push too hard.

It was…unbelievable.

She broke away sharply and gasped, keeping her arms around him and her forehead tipped up against his lowered one.

"How old are you?" she asked breathlessly.

"Twenty-seven," he whispered, pressing another small kiss into her lips. "You?"

"Twenty-two."

They attacked each other again, this time with more urgency. His hands grew bolder, coasting over her upper arms and teasing along the top of her jeans. His touch made her arch her back and press her chest harder into his. It was insistent, but not forceful. She broke away again and attacked his throat.

"Where were you born?" she whispered under his ear.

"San Diego," he almost groaned it. He lowered his chin and nuzzled her cheek gently. "You?"

"Muscatine, Iowa," she answered distractedly, kissing his cheekbone. God, since when did men taste like candy?

"Buttons," he murmured brushing her lips with his.

She pulled back slightly and grinned. The headiness of the moment lifted slightly and she giggled, looking up at him. "Oh, my God. How on earth did you know that Muscatine was famous for buttons?"

Her laughter lifted the spell for him momentarily as well. He blinked and shook his head, chasing off the haze of desire. "Umm.." It also restored his shyness. "I'm not sure. Something about the Mississippi and clams and lots of buttons made from the shells. Is that right?"

The lifted spell didn't discourage Grace's hands from stroking his arms as he continued to hold her against him. "Exactly right. Pearl Button Capital of the World." She chuckled lightly. "I'm very impressed."

The gazed at each other for a moment.

Grace said something that her brain didn't understand. "I _know_ you."

He lowered his forehead so that it rested against hers again. At their meeting, he sighed as though a massive weight had lifted from him. "I'm glad you said that, because I _know_ that I know you, too."

Her eyes fluttered shut. She inhaled, breathing in his foreign scent that she recognized from somewhere, or sometime, hidden deep in the vaults of her memory. Or imagination.

"How is that possible?" she asked semi-rhetorically.

His arms tightened around her. His brain agreed with her question, but his instincts had no questions whatsoever, nor did they welcome any. "I don't know," he answered quietly. "All I know is that your name is Grace Van Pelt from Muscatine, Iowa and I need to take you out tonight."

Still pressed together, she nodded against him slightly. "What's your favorite color?"

He smiled and kissed her softly again before answering.

Any other man with any other woman would have found these questions odd, given the situation, but Wayne understood perfectly. Grace—this mysterious, completely familiar angel in his arms—was getting the formalities out of the way. She couldn't fully reconcile what was happening between them—no more than he could—so she was getting as much groundwork laid as quickly as possible so their already-insanely intimate attachment to each other didn't feel so scary.

While the urgency she felt wasn't there for him, the curiosity certainly was. He wanted to know everything, _everything_ about her. He had a million questions, starting with what kind of food did she want for dinner. But his questions, unlike hers, could wait. His amazement in finding this, whatever she was, wasn't tempered by worry. Quite the opposite. The minute she'd cupped his face and asked to kiss him, he'd been certain.

He had the rest of his life to ask her questions.

His hands roved up her back and into her long, wild hair. "I don't remember what it was before today. But now, and until the day I die, my favorite color is red."

She blushed deeply, adding more red to her appearance and knocking him dizzy with her charm.

"Where can I take you tonight, Grace? Name it and it's yours," he said it and meant so much more than food.

She looked up through her lashes and her mouth ran away without her permission once again. "Your place. I want you to take me to your place."


	30. Exceptional

**A/N**: Wow! Major hollers from peeps about this story! All right, all right. Ya bunch of hopeless romantics. _Tango _is now officially an AU series. I've fashioned the CBI Academy off the FBI Academy. I imagine they'd be similar.

**Exceptional**

Grace sat at her desk in Forensics and didn't hear a word the instructor said. She stared at the stark white page in front of her, completely devoid of notes, and concentrated on the _other _piece of paper currently burning a hole in her pocket. She didn't want to risk putting it in her purse and losing it to the Purse Monster that so often stole keys and lipsticks. This paper was special. It had to be kept safe.

He'd pulled his arms away from her long enough to write on a scrap she'd handed to him. His number. His address. And 7:30pm. He'd pressed it into her palm as he trapped her hands behind her back, holding her helpless as he kept kissing her, despite their mutual agreement that they should part.

"I need to go," she murmured against his lips, pulling half-heartedly at his hold.

"Me too." He tightened his grasp. "I have a meeting."

His free hand cupped her cheek and he deepened their kiss.

Quickly losing her reasoning power, Grace bumped him purposefully with her hips, half-trying to dislodge him, but only creating more pressure and sensation as their clothing dragged against their skin.

"Oh, Jesus," he moaned hotly against her. "I _really_ need to let you go."

"You do." She arched and mewled softly. "We can't keep doing this."

"I know," he whispered, peppering kisses down her throat. "I never would, ordinarily, Grace. I'd never presume like this, but—,"

"I know," she interrupted, nuzzling the side of his face. "Me neither. But you're just…this is just…"

"Different," he supplied, flicking his tongue over her pulse point. "An exception."

"Exactly," she said. "An exceptional exception." She shivered at the implication.

Feeling her shivers, Rigsby finally pulled away. He was breathing heavily, his eyes big as quarters. He purposefully set her away from him. He took her hand that held his address and pulled it to his lips, kissing it hungrily. "I'm happy to take you out. Anywhere. We don't have to rush." Rigsby wanted her in his home more than he wanted oxygen, but he needed to make it clear that he was happy to court her at the same slow pace he would any new girlfriend. He never moved quickly, and he tended to avoid fast women. And while _this _woman made him want to…God, he didn't even want to think of the things he wanted to do to her…he was still more than willing to take it slow, if that was her wish.

Grace instinctively knew all of this. The simple way he carried himself told her that he was a gentleman. He was careful. He didn't go in for casual and was more often pursued by women instead of him pursuing them. His handsome face convinced her of the first, and his downturned, self-conscious eyes convinced her of the second.

All of it made her answer so easy.

"It's not rushing with you." Again, her brain wasn't 100% sure what that meant.

The blue in his eyes lit up and he kissed her hand harder. "Then don't lose this." He pressed her fist delicately.

Now, sitting in class twenty-eight minutes later, Grace could feel the heat of that tiny scrap burning against her thigh. She couldn't resist. She took it out of her pocket, using her index finger to flatten its crinkly texture against her notepad.

Black ink. Blocky, masculine writing. Scant information.

Her body pulsed with desire.

Oh, God, how was this _possible_? Less than two hours ago, she'd been going about her quiet, little life. She'd sat through her morning courses, studious as ever. She'd gone to her self-defense course and robotically fought against other mindless drones, not talking, not even looking them in the eye, until one of them said his name.

Now, a mere ninety-seven minutes later, she was no longer a quiet, studious little robot.

She was a lovesick mess.

But no. She stared in confusion at the scrap. She couldn't be lovesick. Lovesick had the word 'love' in it, which was ridiculous. She couldn't possibly be in love.

**_WAYNE_**

The blocky letters above his number. Single syllable. Long 'A'. Five letters.

Just like hers.

She exhaled softly as the until-now random name adhered itself to her memory of him. His face, his hands, his incredible taste, his soft yet scratchy voice.

Meeting someone new wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to feel nervous. They were supposed to go out for several meals, maybe a movie, over the space of a few weeks. After a few dates, he was supposed to try and kiss her. She was supposed to let him, for a little while. She'd hope for a spark. She'd pull away when he became too enthusiastic. Over a few months, they'd slowly expose themselves to one another. Memories. Opinions. Skin.

There was a procedure. That was the point.

So why had she just kissed Wayne like she'd never kissed anyone in her life? After no time? After thirty steps towards a coffee kiosk? And for almost a half and hour? She should have no knowledge of how firm his hands felt on her. Nor should she know how head-spinning his deep, tonguing kisses were. Her neck shouldn't be covered in his lip prints. Nor should his with hers.

What the hell had happened between the two of them?

Looking at the scrap, two answers surfaced. She didn't know. And? She didn't care.

She knew him. That fact—however bizarre and technically inaccurate—was enough.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rigsby sat in his professor's office as the man praised his decision to go into Arson. He leaned over his desk, smiling widely and insisting that Rigsby had made an excellent choice. That Rigsby had a knack, and a man should always follow his knacks. And forensics was a budding field. A young man entering the game at this point was going to see some fantastic advances, both in detective procedure and lab capabilities. Well chosen. Truly well chosen.

At least, Rigsby was pretty sure that's what the man was saying. He couldn't swear to it. And the reason had nothing to do with arson and everything to do with spontaneous combustion and devil-red accelerant.

Rigsby was lost in a fire.

Right that very moment, a woman was sitting in a classroom across campus. He knew without guessing that she was an excellent student. She took immaculate notes. Her handwriting was neat and even. She listened carefully. She kept her well-considered opinions to herself, most of the time. She shied away from attention, unless it was recognition for her abilities. She wanted no other kind. She seldom dated. She smiled occasionally.

She had burned him alive without trying.

He'd seen her several times around campus. She was hard to miss. When he did see her, she was almost always alone. Walking to class alone. Reading a book under a tree alone. Eating lunch on a bench, still buried in reading and alone.

He fell madly, stupidly, totally in love.

He'd seriously questioned his sanity until today. He couldn't possibly love a woman he didn't even know. All he knew was her name, and he'd found out through the rather stalker-ish method of weaseling a class roster from a buddy from the Forensics admin. There was only one name that repeated in the same classes he knew the redhead took.

Hence, the redhead was Grace Van Pelt.

He had a name. That was all. And yet…he _knew _her.

So, he had volunteered to play an attacker in her defense course. The coach had been pleased at this; He needed big guys and Rigsby was one of the scarier bulls at the rodeo. His participation would teach the first years a thing or two about fearing their opponent. So he donned the padding and attacked the newbies. He had swallowed his worry about throwing her to the floor, then asking her out. He had been impressed by her lack of shyness when it came to fighting him. She'd blown him out of the water when she beat him when no one else had. And then—most of all—she'd squeezed his heart when she kicked his legs out from under him and smiled at his defeat.

He was completely floored, and in more ways than one.

She'd asked him to coffee. She'd _touched _him. And then she asked if he would allow her to kiss him.

It was perfectly clear. She _knew_.

The professor in front him talked on mute as Rigsby relived the moment he put his hands on Grace. It had instantly made him a little crazy. Then he put his mouth on her. And that had rocketed him far beyond crazy and just shy of delirious. Suddenly the crowded campus had dropped away and nothing existed but her soft, pliant body and her softer, insanely perfect lips. He lost all concept of time and just plummeted into her taste and texture. She was dazzling. She was soul-stealing. And she was his.

A stupid, chauvinist thing to think, but it was true. Before their kiss, he was positive his desire was one-sided. After, he couldn't call them anything but fated for each other. She told him as much in the openness of her normally-reserved body and the breathless sighs from her normally-circumspect lips.

He had offered her the city and anything in it that she wanted for their first date. The only part of the city she'd wanted was his apartment. He was extremely proud that he hadn't blacked out from exhilaration and fallen at her feet in a dead faint.

Now, he was once again trying desperately_ not_ to think about all those things he wanted to do to Grace Van Pelt once she was in his home. He wanted to stare at her for hours on end. He wanted to explore every inch of her with his tongue. He wanted to burn all of her clothes and devour the sight of her naked body every second of the day. He wanted to watch her sleep. He wanted to rest his head against her chest and learn the rhythm of her heartbeat. He wanted her to wrap herself around him and beg him to make love to her again and again. He wanted…oh, Christ he needed to stop thinking about what he wanted.

"Wayne?" someone far away was calling. "Wayne?"

His gaze snapped up. "Yessir?"

"Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?" the older man asked kindly.

Rigsby shook his head. "Not today, thank you. I'll schedule another meeting with you closer to the end of term?"

"That's fine. I'll see you in class."

He was dismissed. "Thanks for the pep talk." He smiled gratefully and walked out.

He had nothing to do for the next three hours except plan dinner and try to keep his fantasies in check. Grace would be on his doorstep at 7:30. He had to clean his place up. He had to cook. He had to pick up something for them to drink. Was she a wine girl? If so, red or white? Or did she prefer beer? He smiled at the thought.

In the end, he picked up a little bit of each along with some juice, in case she didn't drink at all. He dove into his humble apartment and began a frenzied cleanup. Dishes thrown in the dishwasher. Dirty clothes rounded up and tossed in the hamper. Papers and books shuffled neatly and packed into their original spots. And on his freshly cleaned dining table, he set a bouquet of a dozen white calla lilies.

The mysterious part of him that recognized Grace had whispered to him in the flower shop. _Avoid roses. They're not her favorite. She appreciates the deceptively simple. And while she dislikes clichés, she secretly thrills at romantic gestures. _

Grace Van Pelt from Muscatine, Iowa liked calla lilies.

Even at gunpoint, Wayne Rigsby would have _no_ idea how he knew that.

He was about to pay for them when he noticed an odd, but pretty clutch of flowers near the register.

"What are those?" he pointed them out to the florist.

"Ah," said the lady, smiling. "Those are Bells of Ireland. Just got them in today."

He fingered the tiny drops as they hung gracefully from the stems. "They're green. I've never seen a green flower before," Rigsby mused out loud.

"Unusual, aren't they?" she agreed.

Rigsby held out his larger bouquet of lilies. "Can you add some of them to these?"

She nodded graciously and took the bundle. "You must have a girl who has a taste for the unusual, then." She carefully inlaid the green bells with the white lilies.

Rigsby grinned. "You know what? I do. And she does."

Now the flowers waited expectantly on his table as he started cooking in the kitchen. He continued to listen to the mystery voice, which told him to make ratatouille and salad. Filling, but good for you. Grace enjoyed being healthy, but preferred big flavors and—occasionally—indulgences. Hence, he'd also picked up chocolate ice cream.

More gunpoint about how he knew these things. More cluelessness.

He whipped up their meal with laidback confidence, as if he'd been cooking for her for years. It was nearly ready when the doorbell rang and nearly made him jump out of his skin.

_It was 7:30 already? _

His heart hammered crazily in his chest as he walked into his living room and opened the door.

It stopped beating when he saw the woman on the other side of it.


	31. Scared

**A/N**: The next in the eagerly-awaited _Tango_ series. I have a weird desire to write 'and Cash' every time I type that word.

**Scared**

She was wearing a gauzy, flowing dress that ended just above her knees. Powder blue, a color that accentuated her soft skin and highlighted her red hair, which curled loosely around her shoulders. Her neckline plunged along the upper swell of her breasts. The bodice clung gently to her curves before spanning out at her hips. If she twirled for him, it would lift away and give him an eyeful of her upper thighs before it settled against her again.

He grunted softly before he could stop himself. She was… Oh, Christ, she was something else.

"Hey," she greeted, a small smile on her lips.

"God, you're stunning." He almost smacked his own forehead for groaning at her like a fool.

But she didn't blush or laugh nervously. Instead, her eyes roamed over the way his t-shirt molded to his chest. Her eyes lowered and she smiled when she saw his jeans and bare feet. It made her feel so at ease, knowing that he wasn't stressing about impressing her with fancy clothes. She wiggled her left sandaled foot. "Mind if I kick mine off too?"

"Not at all," he said, hoping to recover smoothly from his initial greeting. He opened the door for her all the way. She stepped to the side and toed her shoes off, automatically reaching from him to steady herself. He caught her arm and promptly hallucinated again.

Time stopped. The room vanished. He had his hands on her again. He already knew what that did to him. All that existed now was her.

And she knew it.

Her sandals were barely off before she turned into the anchor of his hold and reached up to him. His back hit the door as Grace wrapped her arms around his neck and picked up where they left off that afternoon against the oak tree.

They kissed each other savagely. There was no one to see them. And it wasn't their first kiss. And they were technically on a date. These rationalizations gave them enough cause to attack each other without the small voice reminding them that they just met.

"Jesus, Grace," Rigsby gasped raggedly as she nipped at his jawline. "Will I freak you out if I admit that I missed you?"

She giggled against him, running her hands along his sides. "It depends. Will I freak you out if I admit that I stared at your name and address all day?"

He chuckled and lowered his head. He tried so very hard to keep his hands in appropriate places, but they slid along her thighs, under that delicious dress she was wearing, and he purred at how gloriously soft her skin was.

"You need to tell me when to stop," he growled softly.

She touched the bridge of her nose to his lips and whispered, "How far will you go if I don't?"

"You'd soon find out," he growled deeper, making her gasp as his hands audaciously cupped her ass under her dress. His fingers met bare flesh, thongs being her panty preference, and he gritted his teeth and groaned. "Dammit, Grace. Tell me to stop."

It wasn't the first time Grace had been groped on a first date. It was, however, the first time she'd provoked it. Welcomed it. Didn't want it to stop under any circumstances.

Because Wayne wasn't groping her on a first date. He was reacquainting himself with something he'd lost long ago. He'd missed it so bad. Now he was mindless with pleasure to have it back again.

She knew this. Because she had lost it, too. And had missed it terribly. Now she was purring with happiness as his foreign, familiar hands gripped her tightly and ground their bodies together.

But first things first.

"Okay," she relented, shaking her head drunkenly. "Stop."

He released her instantly, nearly panting as he ripped his hands away, but keeping his face next to hers. "Thank you," he rasped softly.

"Don't" she whispered impishly, her eyes flashing dangerously. "I'm just hungry. That's all." She stepped back, giving him enough room and peel himself off of his front door.

She assumed a much more demure, first date posture, clasping her hands behind her back and dipping her chin shyly. Rigsby knew he was a dead man.

"Is there a dime tour?"

He nodded. "There's even a meal at the end."

He showed around the wonder the was post-grad accommodation. Small kitchen. Two bedrooms, one of which he'd turned into an office. Bathroom. Living room. Questions? Comments?

She shook her head smilingly. "I think I got it." She gestured to his space. "I like it. You keep a nice home."

"Thank you." He held his hand out to her. "Still hungry?"

"Duh."

He pulled her close. "I need to kiss you first. Is that okay?"

She smiled up at her own request thrown back at her. "I'm so glad you asked."

She rose up on tiptoe and kissed him softly. His arms went around her back and he silently ordered them to stay there. He pressed small, light pecks into her pouty lips, inhaling her scent and purring at its delectable combination of girly shampoo and light perfume.

She was so damn edible. How the hell had he managed to find this woman of the millions in this city alone? What were the odds against it?

He growled angrily at the question and chased it away by kissing her harder. Fuck the odds. For whatever reason, the little lightening storm currently in his arms had struck him. _Him_. Odds had no influence over events already played out.

Highly improbable had become certainty.

Grace was his.

The thought calmed him a little. "Lemme feed you." He swayed her a bit, hugging her tight.

"Kay," she answered, her willowy limbs flowing with his movement.

He pulled away and led her to the table. As she sat, he handed her the elegant spray of white and green. "These are for you."

Her eyes lifted in surprise and delight as she held them to her face. At first, he thought she was going to smell them and was a little annoyed at himself. Calla lilies didn't have much scent. He should have picked something more fragrant, after all. But she surprised him by rubbing her cheeks and nose along the large, singular petals, basking in their softness. She didn't inhale. She wanted their touch, not their scent. He'd never seen anyone do that before. His mouth went dry at the unexpectedly erotic sight.

She blew on the bells, watching them dance in the breeze, before she looked up at him in wonder. "Calla lilies and Bells of Ireland."

Still coiled tight with desire, he merely nodded.

She shook her head slowly, her eyes never leaving his. "How could you possibly have known?"

He had no answer, no more than he had when he bought them. He gave her the best he had. "They felt like you."

"Roses are typical," she observed as she ran her fingers over the beautiful curvature of the bells.

"Typical isn't you."

She lowered her face completely in the lilies and Rigsby got the impression she was hiding her pleasure at his words. "Thank you," she said. "They're beautiful."

He needed to get to the kitchen. Now. The spell was descending again. Her inescapable charm was roping him. Pulling him in. He needed to refocus and dinner was a convenient option. He turned towards the door, fully intent on spoiling her with excellent food, when a small hand shot out and grabbed his.

He turned.

Oh, no.

The spell. It was working itself deep in the hazel green eyes of his companion. She was already lost to it. She stood up, still holding his hand.

"Wayne?"

"Yes, baby." It was acknowledgement. Not a question. The spell leapt from her eyes and into his. It had him now. There was no fighting it.

"I…I want…" She cocked her head, her brow flickering with confusion. Where were her words? She couldn't seem to find them. She shrugged and exhaled softly. Then she'd ask without them. She stood up and took her dress by the hem and with one graceful sweep, pulled it up and off.

Her thong was dark blue. Aside from her pendant, it was all she wore.

Rigsby cursed raggedly and sucked a breath through his teeth.

Grace Van Pelt was flawless. He knew she would be. It shouldn't have shocked him like it did. But her skin was so smooth and glowing. Her hips were flared and achingly feminine. Her breasts were ample, well-shaped and so very enticing. Her legs were slim and shapely. Her shoulders. Her stomach. The very tips of her toes.

Perfection.

"I want." He didn't hear his own strangled echo of her words.

She slipped her arms around his neck and nestled into him. "Then take."

"Oh, fuck," he hissed frantically into her hair, his hands sliding up and down her back before gripping her ass and grinding her into his jeans. "I can't. Grace, I can't. You have to tell me to stop. Please, baby. I shouldn't…_Jeee_-sus…I have to go slow…You're too import—,"

"Let's make love, Wayne. Right now. Please?" She tugged his t-shirt up so she could press her breasts into the hard planes of his chest. She made a sweet, trilling noise as her stiff, aching nipples dragged against him. Pleasure bolted through both of them and they moaned in unison.

"Graaace." He tugged his t-shirt off as he pleaded with her. "You're too special, baby. I don't want you to think I'm trying to score or—,"

A slender finger pressed gently against his lips, silencing him. He made himself look down at the lovely creature in his arms. She smiled serenely. Her eyes stayed hungry.

"I know," she soothed. "And there's no reason to wait. I want you," she said simply. "I know you and I want you." Her smile grew slightly. "Is that okay?"

Rigsby's eyes rolled back and his hands used his distraction and shot to her breasts. She gasped and jerked into his touch as he worked their sweet softness with his palms and fingers.

"God help me," he muttered as he worked her willing body slowly. "Grace, please listen to me. I know it's crazy, but I love you. I don't want to scare you, but I do. I love you so much that I'm insane with it."

His words had the opposite effect of the one he'd expected. She didn't stiffen against him or pull away in surprise. Instead, she rubbed herself harder into his bare chest and cried out with pleasure.

"Yes," she cooed breathlessly. "Then show me. Please, Wayne. Show me?"

He gave a rough shout and gripped her shoulders. "I make love to you now, and you're mine. You hear me? Mine, Grace. You just met me today, but you'll belong to me. Is that what you want?"

His body roared at him to shut up and just _feel_ the spine-melting way she was dry humping him, but part of him wanted to scare her _a little_. She had to understand. This wasn't a roll in the hay. This was the real deal. He was certain they were meant for each other. If she didn't feel the same way, then the dress had to go back on and they needed to sit down and eat. After he excused himself and jerked off like crazy in the bathroom, of course.

But her dexterous little fingers were already opening his fly. His last two precious barriers of clothes were under attack. He moaned loudly and didn't stop her. "Answer me, baby."

"Yes," the firmness in her voice shot straight to his heart. She abandoned his fly and reached up to cup his cheeks. She gave him her eyes. They were clear. "I want you, and not just right now. I want you for…" She bit her lips. "For everything."

That sealed it. Wayne lost control.

He yanked to her him and kissed her hard. She moaned with approval in his mouth, her fingers ripping at his pants once again.

Wayne was trying to work out how to move them to the bedroom without breaking contact when her warm hands found their destination and gripped him. Hard. He arched violently into her touch and suddenly the bedroom was Siberia.

"Fuuuuck," he hissed dangerously. "The condoms are in my room."

She hummed and kissed his chest and shook her head. "I'm clean." She looked up. "You?"

He nodded shakily. "Birth control?"

She nodded back. "The shot."

Well in that case…

Wayne picked her up, took two steps, and set her down on his table. His jeans and boxers were already bunched mid-thigh, so he kicked them down and off as Grace slipped her panties to the floor. He stood naked between her legs.

Christ, he could smell how wet she was. He slid a single finger between her open thighs and nearly howled with need. So _fucking _wet. Grace let out a throaty, sexy keen as she leaned back and pushed her hips into his finger.

"Oh, my God," she whimpered. "Please. Now. I need you now."

"I should taste you first." He wanted to go down on her. Very, very much. But he didn't think he could hold on. His cock was straining furiously towards the soaking heat of her pussy. He slipped his finger into her and finally let his howl loose.

"Holy shit," he gasped, pumping his finger inside her slowly. Grace fell back and sobbed with impatience as he marveled at the impossible tightness clenching his finger. His cock was in for an unforgettable fuck inside this girl. She felt almost too perfect. Soaking wet. Virgin tight. Inhumanly hot. His hips bucked forward.

The bedroom would have to wait.

"I just need a little," he promised her roughly. "Just a little, then I'll take you to bed, okay?"

She nodded hastily and he wasn't sure she was even listening. She just wanted what was coming. She didn't care where.

He palmed her knees and nudged gently as her entrance. Sweet, slippery desire met him as he carefully eased himself inside her. Grace whimpered and arched as he growled with feral ecstasy at the impossibly soft tightness that engulfed him.

He cradled her hips, moving slowly, until his sizeable cock disappeared completely into her beautiful body. When she embraced all of him, he held perfectly still as another certainty crashed into him. Not only did his mystery voice whisper it to him, but Grace's body told him the secret as well. He pulled her up into a sitting position, still buried deep inside her, cupped her face and kissed her gently. "How many times have you had sex before, sweetheart?"

She was writhing sweetly against him, her face contorted with amazed pleasure. "Twice."

"Two other boyfriends?"

"No," she clarified, stroking his chest pleadingly. "I've only had one boyfriend. I slept with him twice before we broke up."

Wayne rumbled darkly, the animalistic need to just start pounding away left him instantly. "Was he careful?"

She bit her lips, her eyes wide. "He tried to be."

"Grace, did you enjoy it?"

For the first time that night, she dropped her eyes from his. "No."

He exhaled raggedly and pulled her into a soft hug. "Baby," he murmured into her hair. "You should have said something to me."

He felt her head shake against his cheek as she planted kisses along his shoulder. "Please don't worry about hurting me, Wayne. I feel so different with you than I ever did with him. I want you so much." She pulled back and gazed at him in awe. "You're so big. I thought big was supposed to hurt more."

He nuzzled her face, still refusing to move. "So this doesn't hurt?"

She had limited leverage, but she pushed her hips against his in short, sexy little thrusts. "This feels like a tease." Her eyes begged him. "I want more."

He clenched his teeth together and withdrew slowly. Her eyes rolled up and she moaned, grabbing his hands and placing them over her aching breasts. "More," she insisted.

Wayne thrust back in while molding her breasts, hissing in agony as her pussy squeezed him tightly. "Who the hell are you?" he groaned as he began a steady pace, letting his generous length slide more fully in and out of her. "What are you doing to me?"

Grace cried out and locked her legs around his thighs as he stood at the table's edge. Her eyes were shut in ecstasy and her mouth fell open as he filled her up over and over.

"So good," she breathed out. "Not supposed to be this good. I don't know you. I don't know anything about you." Her opened her eyes and stared at him in wonder. "Why do we feel so perfect together?"

He groaned her name and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her off the table and up onto his waist.

One hand pressed against her ass to still her wriggling little hips that were so desperate to maintain their tempo.

He needed them to slow down. Too much was at stake.

"Stop. Shshsh, just stop," he whispered in her ear, holding her so that they lined up perfectly. Cheek to cheek, he nosed her ear through her wild hair. "Talk to me. Tell me what feels good. Tell me everything you want."

She shivered and pulled back to look at him. Nose to nose, she held him by his shoulders. She looked frightened by his request, her wide eyes scanning his as he continued to hold her to him, keeping their bodies still.

"_You_ feel good," she said at least. "Everything about you feels good."

He gripped her ass and rotated her gently, his cock moving slightly inside of her. "This still doesn't hurt? You're incredibly tight, Grace. You need to tell me if it's too much." He brushed a reassuring kiss on her lips. "There are other ways, pretty baby. I can make you feel _so_ good if this is uncomfortable."

She whimpered with fear and nearly strangled him as her grip became steely. "No!" she whispered. "Don't you dare stop." Her inner muscles squeezed him mercilessly in agreement.

He gasped and hugged her tighter. "I'm trying…to be gentle," he stuttered out as she continued to choke his dick in the most delicious way imaginable.

"You won't hurt me," she said, wriggling against him despite his hold on her. "Give me more."

He helplessly nodded. "I'll take you to bed first. Kay?"

"Kay."

He walked back to his room, kissing her the whole way. Her stranglehold on his neck and cock didn't loosen and it fried his brain with how good it felt. Instead of lowering her onto the mattress and having to pull out of her, he simply sat on the bed, keeping her in his lap. He scooted back slowly, his body still nestled deep in hers, until he laid back and she was on top of him.

She seemed startled to lose his lips and find herself perched on his supine form. "Wayne?"

He smiled up at her softly. "Ever ridden a man before, sweetheart?"

She lowered her head, her hair falling around her face. "No. He was on top both times."

Wayne bit his cheek and exhaled slowly. He needed to forget this asshole who hadn't treated her properly and just focus on making _their _sex as wonderful for her as it already was for him.

He continued to smile with encouragement. "Will you try it for me? You're so beautiful, baby. I want to watch you make love to me."

She nodded, still looking a bit shy. "You'll tell me if I'm doing something wrong?"

_God, was she kidding_? Every nerve in his body was ready to explode just from looking at her.

He stroked her thighs spread so gorgeously across his hips. Looking down, he growled at the sight of her folds stretched delicately around the base of his rigid cock. His hips responded to the sight and thrust up gently, filling her up with that last inch and fusing their hips completely together.

Her eyes fluttered and she moaned.

"Nothing you do is wrong, Grace. Move on me. Take what you want. Slow, fast, soft, hard. I promise you're already the most incredible fuck I've ever had."

She gasped at his use of the word 'fuck'.

She rose up and sank again slowly, watching his face, her pupils swelling as his body passively pleasured hers. "So we're fucking? Is that what this is?"

He heard her excitement. He nodded, massaging her hips in firm, circular strokes. "Yes, we're fucking. More precisely, you're fucking _me_." Her breathing hitched and he smirked. He rumbled low and gravelly, "Do you like fucking me, Grace?"

She came down harder and he groaned at the sensation. She arched, grinding and rolling her hips, bending him in a tight circle. "Yes," she whispered. "I _love_ fucking you."

"Tell me," he encouraged through clenched teeth.

"I can't help myself," she said, working herself faster on top of him. "I want you so much. I've wanted this from the moment you said my name."

She was soaking him. Her wetness coated his cock, the whole of his balls, and most of his inner thighs. She was gushing, desperate for the luscious slide of his thick girth in her inexperienced pussy. She'd had no idea a man's presence in her body could feel like a completion instead of an uncomfortable assault. She was frantic to maintain it. She had no idea what his staying power was, but she couldn't stop thrusting onto him over and over, reveling in the slow burn that grew hotter with each push. Hopefully he could hold on. Now that she'd had him, she had every intention of fucking Wayne Rigsby until she drained him.

"Oh, God, baby. You're so damn lovely. I love you so goddamn much," he babbled hotly as he watched his young girlfriend fuck him with increasing fervor. It was mesmerizing. Her breasts bounced heavily. Her hands cupped and stroked him until they settled over his on her hips. Her breathing grew heavier until she was panting and gasping and riding him at a punishing gallop.

"Don't come," she moaned pleadingly. "I love this. I love you. Don't come yet, Wayne. God, I could ride you all night."

_I love you_. He heard it. Rigsby hissed and bucked up instinctively, despite his resolution to stay still and let her set the pace. Her eyes shot wide and she cried out. "Yes! Oh, God. Do that again."

He drove up again and she nearly screamed with euphoria. "More," she begged. "Fuck me like I'm fucking you." She swooped down and kissed him passionately. She whispered something that snapped his control. "Love me like I'm loving you."

He roared, gripping her hips and ramming deep. Grace sobbed in delight and timed her thrusts to meet his.

They collided over and over. Their gasps and cries vibrated in the air. Grace came hard, screaming his name and losing her mind to the pounding sweetness of her new lover.

He came harder, roaring and shuddering as his soul transferred to its new owner.

Grace felt faint as pleasure pulsed hard through her body. Her muscles failed her and she fell gasping onto his chest. His cock was still twitching inside her. She shivered with satisfaction as she felt his semen spill hotly, the man himself groaning and muttering deliriously. She held him tightly, afraid to let go.

He hugged her back, cradling her to him and rocking softly, side to side. "Oh, Grace," he crooned, kissing the top of her head. "You're incredible."

"Wayne, I'm scared," she sighed against him. "I'm scared of what's happening between us."

He continued to rock her and make deep, rumbling purrs as they slowly came down from their highs. He couldn't stop kissing the crown of her head. The softness and scent of her hair were getting him drunk. He didn't tense at her words. Instead he nodded. "I know, baby. I don't know what to make of it, either."

She lifted her head to gaze at him. She looked every bit as intoxicated as he felt. "You love me?"

He nodded again, his eyes unapologetic.

"And I love you," she said in confusion. She shook her head with incomprehension and kissed his chin. "And we've made love."

She inched forward and gripped him anxiously. "I'm so scared, baby, because now I'm going to need you like crazy and I just met you a few hours ago."

He smiled sleepily. "I know. And I agree it's scary, but I'm not scared." He cupped her face, thumbing her cheekbones. "I have you. And you have me. We'll work the rest out as we go along. Kay?"

She gave him a weak smile. "Kay."

"You still hungry?"

"Duh."

He chuckled. "Want some ice cream?"

"Mmmmm," she purred. "I _love_ ice cream."

He kissed her smiling lips and whispered, "I know."


	32. Refusal

**A/N**: Hey all! I've finally come to my _fourth_ country of residence and I'm ready to get back into the fanfic game. You can't imagine how much I missed you guys. Here's the next in the _Tango_ series. I can't seem to focus on anything else! Word props to celticgina.

**Refusal**

So it began. Wayne and Grace were in love. Utterly and completely and with no understanding of how it happened. Their shock in discovering it quickly eroded in favor of discovering every tiny detail about each other.

Grace was an apt pupil. Never having loved before, and never having _made_ love before, she proved dauntless in her rapt exploration of Rigsby. Every thought in his head. Every inch of his body. She committed them to memory and reveled in her newfound knowledge.

They skipped the meals. They skipped the awkward small talk. They skipped the clothes. Their relationship drove them straight into bed at every encounter. Even if all they wanted to do was talk, they did it naked, twisted around each other and whispering in the dark. Everything else felt like pretense. Their need for each other was simply too great. _All _of their needs were too great.

She was sweetly killing him with her sexual appetite. Their first time had ignited something in her, long dormant, that burned so hot and so constant that she needed him several times a day just to extinguish it, if only for a few hours.

She'd find him after class. She'd find him in his tiny research office. She'd even find him as _he_ was looking for _her_. Sometimes they'd make it to his place. Other times they fell short and into his SUV. Never had he been so happy that he'd sprung for tinted windows. He'd gently lay her out, remove every stitch of their clothing, and caress her throbbing, trembling body until she broke for him, usually just seconds before he broke as well. She came for the first time against his mouth in that car. She swallowed her insecurity at her first time and just trusted herself to him, knowing he would take care of her. He gently sucked her clit and massaged her outer folds with three fingers while she twisted and cried out in bliss. Just as she began to crest, Rigsby couldn't help himself. He slid his index finger inside of her as she came. Her tight, almost virginal pussy gripped his digit in desperation as her body gave in to him. Grace pulsed hotly with her initial climax, only to sob as she felt his gentle entry deep into her core. She felt his curiosity and his lust, wanting to connect to her in the most intimate way as she came just for him. His tenderness, his generosity, increased her orgasm tenfold and she shattered like fine crystal under his touch. After that, she pleaded for oral sex just as ardently as she did everything else.

There was no point in fighting it. Rigsby had already learned.

After their first time, Rigsby tried like hell to hold himself back. He still felt on some level that it was his duty as the man and the older, more sexually experienced of the two to try and date like normal people. He tried taking her out to eat. As they were about to head out to a restaurant, Grace leaned over to kiss him gently before he started the car and they ended up making out for hours in his driveway. Dinner never happened.

He tried playing a DVD while they sat on his sofa. Grace, eyes wide with excitement, took the opportunity to gently run her fingers up and down his arms and chest and thighs. She hadn't meant anything sexual at the time, she just found him so viscerally fascinating that the movie won second place to the many textures of the man next to her. The opening credits hadn't even finished before they were naked, Grace riding his lap while Rigsby sucked her nipples hungrily. She gripped the sofa's back, arching and sobbing as the new position filled her with new, wondrous sensations as she once again took control.

It was the one thing he insisted on. Grace was inexperienced and he wanted her to remain on top. Not only could she slowly accustom herself to sex as a pleasurable act, but it saved Rigsby from the temptation of losing control. The positions she asked for, _begged _for, he had to refuse until he was sure she was able to take him without discomfort or fear. The image of her biting her lip in pain, or of her whimpering while he drove heedlessly inside of her, kept him immovable on the subject. She would argue that they'd already made love a dozen times. He counter-argued that it was in the space of three days. She stayed on top. End of discussion.

Until the night she came over to study for midterm exams.

They both had them, and their relationship had bitten hard into their study habits. She showed up right on time. He opened the door and his jaw hit the floor.

"Hey," she smiled as she gave her customary greeting. She had her books pressed modestly into her chest. That was where her modesty ended. She was wearing a trench coat. An honest to God trench coat, ending at mid-thigh. _Bare _mid-thigh. She wore simple black high heels, which alone were quite fetching, but coupled with bare legs and the coat spelled sexy fucking cocktease. Her hair framed her face as she gazed at him innocently.

Rigsby asked again silently who the hell this girl was who'd entered his life and promptly torn it to pieces. Clearly, whatever Grace wanted tonight, Rigsby had no doubt she'd have it. All of it. His previous refusals would be ripped to shreds. And she hadn't even asked for anything yet. He wheezed out some lame hello in return. She walked in, her heels clicking on his entryway, before turning to him and smiling sweetly.

"Mind if we study in your room? It's easier to spread everything out."

Evil, evil temptress.

Rigsby groaned and pulled her in his arms, tossing her books aside and running his hands over her sleek coat as he kissed her deeply.

"Tell me you're not naked under this thing," he begged as he pawed at her.

"Irrelevant," she informed him loftily. "We're here to work. Right?" Her eyes sparked, daring him to make the evening about sex and he grinned at her glorious, playful disposition that only he got to see.

He nodded. "Right. Lots of stuff to get done, here. Go on back, I'll be there in a minute."

She gave him a saucy look before sashaying back to his room, picking up her books where he'd dropped them on the table. Her outrageously sexy legs winked at him as they went. He pulled a deep breath through his teeth and went to the kitchen, pulling out two beers (she _was_ a beer girl). Glancing furtively down the hallway to make sure she couldn't see him, he quickly lifted his t-shirt and held one of the icy bottles to his lower abdomen. The freezing cold made him hiss as his blood chilled instantly and took his hard-on down considerably. He couldn't risk her seeing him sporting one. If she did, she might start begging to down on him again, another treat he hadn't allowed himself in the last three days of their sex fest. Another thing he wasn't sure he could control once she wrapped her lips around him and sucked him until he lost it and wrestled her to the ground, fucking her mouth like a ruthless bastard.

He _completely_ trusted his love and his concern for her safety. He trusted his reflexes about as much as he'd trust a strung-out crackhead. Way too unpredictable. Way too addicted to be considered safe.

When he got a handle on himself, he removed the bottle from his cold skin and walked back to his bedroom. She'd closed the door halfway. He pushed at it without thinking and gazed into the space.

_What the….?_

"Mother of God," he groaned harshly, the unopened bottles falling forgotten onto the floor. "Grace, baby, what are you doing?"

She was reading on his bed. She was facing away from him. She was naked. She was on all fours. Her books were spread out in front of her. Her perfect, irresistible ass was spread out in front of him. Her face was bent over her reading material, examining them closely, while her body screamed for a hard, pounding fuck from behind.

Another position she had asked for. The biggest one that he would not allow himself to indulge. Too dangerous. Too…much…oh, god…she really needed to stop that.

"I'm studying," she informed him. She looked over her shoulder and gave him a Fuck Me bat with her lashes. "That's what I'm here for. Right?"

"Mean girl," he hissed lovingly at her. "What the hell am I supposed to do with you?"

His brain was starting to shut down. Major power outage. Please try again later. Rigsby fought madly to keep his prior objections firmly in his thoughts, but the lights were flickering behind his eyes. His thought process was losing out. Badly. Worst of all, the power was being rerouted somewhere else. Somewhere...lower and...Jesus Christ, she looked so damn lickable.

She raised her pencil to her lips and tapped them in thought. She could have been any Penthouse foldout, looking so studious while she silently dared him with her body. "Well, you could either come over here and study with me," she turned her eyes to him and he knew Option B was the only real choice. "Or you can come over here and teach me something I don't know."

All remaining power shot straight to his groin.

Rigsby lunged.

Grace gasped and shrieked happily as her dangerously turned on boyfriend grabbed her hips from behind and thrust his jean-covered hips hard into her ass. He hissed wildly, the procautions taken with the beer bottle totally obliterated, as he pistoned against her while fully clothed. His fingers sank into her soft flesh as he yanked her against him hard, groaning as his jeans rubbed both of them in all the right ways. Grace shook violently at the position's bestial element. Suddenly she had zero control. She had offered herself and now she was being taken. There would be no setting the pace, no power over depth or speed. Nothing. She wasn't going to fuck him. She was going to _get_ fucked. Her eyes fluttered shut and she arched her back in delicious anticipation.

"Yessss," she moaned pleadingly.

Rigsby felt her eager surrender to his rough foreplay and swore loudly. "What the _fuck_," he growled angrily as he continued to grind her, "am I supposed to do with you?" He tugged her upright so that they stood on their knees together, the matress bowing slightly under their weight. He held her tightly against him her back to his chest, running his hands over her breasts as he hissed in her ear. "You spread yourself like this for me and expect me to keep my shit together?"

Grace threw her arms backward around his neck, rotating her ass against his bulge in frantic invitation. "No," she whispered, arching into his hands as he pinched her nipples. "I want you to lose it. I want you to lose your mind for me. I want you to want me so bad that you don't even undress." He was dry fucking her in earnest now as she leaned into his drives. "I want you to just open your fly and plunge into me. Let me feel how crazy I make you. You've let me go crazy so many times." She gazed at him over her shoulder. "It's your turn."

He rubbed his forehead against hers. "This positition is uncomfortable for a lot of women, Grace. Especially if I push hard." He fought the images she'd dumped into his head as he continued to hold her against him. "I've never made a woman come this way."

She hummed with pleasure at his concern. "Just thinking about making love to you this way nearly makes me come," she admitted softly. "Please try with me. We can start slow. I promise I'll tell you if it hurts."

He nodded and wordlessly reached between their bodies and unsnapped his jeans. "I don't want to undress," he rumbled darkly against her cheek. "There's no time. I just want to rip my dick out and fuck you until I explode." He lowered his jeans and boxers and his erection sprang free as he groaned with relief. "It scares me how hard I want you, baby."

Grace swallowed as the savage she unleash prodded impatiently between her thighs and growled wonderfully frightening things into her ear.

"Bend over," he ordered. "And by god, Grace, if this hurts you, you tell me immediately or I'll..." he rasped and bucked against her as the thought of her in pain made him furious. "Just tell me."

Slowly, she resumed her position on all fours. She heard him grumble something like, "Fucking perfect," as he gripped his cock and rubbed it firmly between her folds, coating himself. She moaned softly. He was the most lust-inducing man she'd ever known in her life. She braced herself, never imagining for one second that he could possibly hurt her.

Grace gasped as he entered her slowly. He instantly stilled. "No," whimpered quickly. "I'm fine. Keep going."

He growled in delighted frustration and continued to push forward at a torturously slow pace.

She finally understood why Wayne had been so hesitant about this position. As he slowly invaded her hot depths, her small, feminine channel worked hard to accomodate his thick, masculine presence. It didn't hurt. Not at all. But she was hyper-aware of him as her body stretched and sheathed him so tightly.

When he bottomed out inside of her, Wayne exhaled through his teeth and groaned. "I'm not strong enough to do this."

He refused to move, too terrified at the blinding pleasure coursing through him. It beckoned him. Promised him so much more. He only had to push. And keep pushing. Harder and harder until she blew his brains out simply by letting him have her in this primal way.

"You are," she disagreed breathlessly, thrilled as her body adjusted to him. "Talk to me," she pleaded. "Tell me everything you're thinking."

She gave him a soft little sigh as he pulled out gently and thrust back in experimentally. And slowly. So, so slowly. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his restraint as it took a serious beating. His hips were stiff. His breathing was tight and labored. She moaned again, letting him hear her pleasure.

"Fine," he gritted out. "I love that you're almost a virgin, Grace."

She continued to coo happily for him as he built a lazy rhythm that made her question why he ever wanted to avoid this position. The slide of his cock, and the depths he could reach inside her, coupled with her helplessness and inability to watch him, drove her wild with need.

"I love that you're so tight. Almost too tight. And it's because you're not used to men." He continued to stroke carefully, his moans betraying his agony as he fought to stay calm.

"I love that I'm taking you like this. That I'm buried so deep in you that your sweet little ass is locked to my hips."

Grace nodded frantically. She too loved how his body sank completely into her, riveting their hips together and filling her with his throbbing need. She gasped when he tugged her hips in response. He was getting more excited. She wasn't in pain and that fact was chipping away at his self-control.

"I'm not your first, but dammit, baby, I'm the first that's ever made you feel good," he rumbled proudly. "And I'm the first...and the last...to feel your hot little pussy this way."

"Waaayne," she groaned low and hungrily. "I need you harder. It's too good...I need..." She broke off and cried out as he pulled out almost completely, only to begin a quick succession of thrusts at a more shallow depth. Grace shrieked with pleasure at the pace and frustration at the tease. She shoved herself backwards, trying to embed him more fully inside her. "More," she demanded impatiently. "Harder."

"I can't!" he nearly shouted at her. She had no idea what she was asking for. She needed to stop pleading for that scary shit and just let him concentrate. "Be good," he smacked her ass gently. "Let me do this right or we stop right now."

She nearly screamed in frustration as his thick length massaged her outer folds and entrance with wonderful, stiff strokes and nowhere near enough pressure.

"Uuuugh!" she cried angrily. "Stop. Now."

He withdrew instantly, terrified that he'd hurt her. She took that moment to roll and flip to her back, her legs spread wide on either side of him as he stood on his knees. Shoving her books to the floor with one arm, she arched her back and shamelessly called for him.

"You love me, right?" she asked as her legs wrapped around his thighs and tugged.

He fought to stay upright, speechless at her sudden move, but nodded mutely.

"You respect me?" she pulled harder. He lost his balance and fell forward, his hands catching his weight on either side of her, his warm, heavy hips slotting perfectly against hers. He groaned at the contact.

"Yes. So much," he answered, his wide eyes boring down into hers.

She ripped his t-shirt over his head while her legs pushed at his jeans until he finally kicked them off. She locked him into her arms and legs. "Then take me how I want you to. Slide inside of me and move, baby." She smiled fiendishly. "Fuck me, Wayne. Like I know you want to."

His anxiety wisely stepped aside and instinct took him over. He pulled back just enough to reposition and plunge into her eager pussy. Grace clutched his shoulders and sobbed with relief as Rigsby nearly howled with bliss.

"YES!" Grace called out as her lover hammered hard and fast between her thighs. "Just like that! Oh, God, WAYNE!"

Wayne had been wrong. Grace wasn't _nearly _a virgin. Not if this was sex. Pinned under this formidable man, accepting the forceful, dizzying thrusts of his body, Grace experienced a pleasure unlike any she'd ever dreamed of. She was a _complete _virgin if this was sex. They moaned together as Rigsby's superior strength and better leverage took them to such intense heights that Grace feared she'd pass out before she got to watch him come. Her eyes shot wide against the thought. She let loose every thought in her head just to make sure she stayed with him.

"I love that I'm almost a virgin," she whispered as peppered kisses down his throat and chest. "I never wanted this before. Not until you. I'm tight for you. I'm wet for you." He roared with pleasure and she arched into his masculine pride and purred. "I only _ever _want you."

"That's right," he hissed, pumping harder and harder with each word she spoke. "Me. Only me. You belong just to me. You come only for me."

"And you for me," she slid her knees up his ribs, letting him slide even deeper. He shouted her name and agreed. "Yes. Yours. Only yours."

Her entire being constricted as Grace came harder than she ever had in her life. Her nails scored his back as she screamed out her orgasm, locking him deep in her body and crushing his cock with an astonishing grip.

Rigsby arched violently and bellowed her name as she strangled his released from him with the most painful joy he'd ever experienced. Light exploded in his eyes, black spots dancing in its wake as he shook uncontrollably in her arms.

"Baby," he choked out, wanting her voice to soothe him as he came down.

"Yes," she panted softly. "I'm okay." She reached up and petted his arms and chest, reassuring him. "Come here."

He had no refusal left in him. He collapsed on her, taking some of his weight onto his elbows, but lowering the rest into her waiting arms. Together they lay breathing heavily, not daring to speak. Grace continued to rub his lower back, having read somewhere that men enjoyed it. He responded to it, rumbling appreciatively and nuzzling her neck in post-coital tenderness.

With all of his firm authority drained, Rigsby asked quietly. "Can I stay like this for awhile?"

Grace grinned with pleasure. "Yes. I don't want you to move. Ever."

He chuckled and relaxed further, letting his head drop completely next to hers. "No problem. I think you broke me."

"Hmmmmm," she purred in satisfaction. "You're a tougher cookie than that, Wayne Rigsby."

"No tough cookie," he muttered sleepily against her. "Mush. Total, gooey, Grace-loving mush."

Her smile grew as she snuggled up into him, her nose burrowing into the crook of his neck. "Then you're very tough mush."

He sighed happily and shifted his hips. She could still feel him buried deep inside her and she gave a sigh of her own. "We didn't study," she said absently.

"Your fault," he accused, not raising his head.

"I know. Still love me?"

He snorted. "Still love _me_? Even though I'm mush?"

"Always," she answered. Her fingers encountered her scratches on his back and she kissed his shoulder by way of apology.

"Always," he reciprocated, his shoulder muscles rippling under the salty sting of her scrapes. He hadn't even noticed when she'd given them to him.

She nodded and inhaled slowly, her chest pressing up into his. "Sleep with me?" she asked.

He slipped to her side and pulled her to him. "Always."


	33. Safe

**A/N**: Everyone please forgive me. I've been so caught up with new house stuff that I've totally neglected my dear Grigsby fic. Plus, I've felt deflated about it lately. Season two ended on such a baffling note for our pair. I guess I'm still grieving. So I cheated on them with _Warehouse 13_. Word props going to the beloved Schernbles, who pushed me with love.

**Safe**

He found her sitting in his door frame and shivering from the rain when he finally got home that night. It was late. Gone on midnight. Far too late for a friendly call. Walking up to his stoop, he slowed his step. Soaked, teeth chattering, she looked up at the sound of his footsteps.

"Hey," she whispered softly. Her arms were wrapped around her knees. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks. Rigsby shivered with her, but not from cold.

Nodding softly, he knelt by her side. "Hey," he replied, not bothering to censor his hands as they cupped her head affectionately, pushing the wet strands from her face and tracing her cheeks. "Long time, sweetie."

She nodded again, letting him touch her as he liked. It was why she was here anyway. One of the many reasons she was here. He cupped her face for a long time, taking in the drained, hollowed-out quality of her expression, before he got back to his feet, pulling her with him.

He keyed his lock as he spoke. "Your dad," he guessed solemnly as he led her inside.

She didn't bother to respond. He knew her so well. There was no need to answer him. There was only one person—aside from Wayne himself—who could bring her to this level of misery.

Her clothing dripped as she stood in his entryway. He closed the door, hung up his coat and turned to her. She let him stare at her bedraggled appearance. She had never minded when he stared. But he surprised her when he stepped forward and hugged her, drippy clothes and all, and kept her in his arms until the inevitable happened.

She broke down.

She buried her rain and tear strained face into the softness of his shirt and the hardness of his shoulder. That was Wayne all over. A velvet brick. His clothes and skin had a softening affect on the rigidity of his body. She pressed harder into him, relishing the warmth that seeped into her freezing skin.

"I hate him," she whispered.

She felt him kiss her head. A soothing gesture automatically given. It used to be a daily occurrence. He'd chuckled and said he couldn't help it. Her forehead was level with his lips, he had reasoned. It was only natural that he kiss her there. Now he did it without thinking.

When it came to her, he usually didn't. He just acted. Like now. More kisses in her wet hair.

"He's a fool," he counseled. He already knew about her tiresome daddy issues, hence he didn't even need to ask what had been said. He'd always been there with a tissue and a hug after she'd hung up with the man. He'd never pushed at her with advice or judgment. He simply did what he was good at. He did what she needed now more than ever. He was her rock.

He cradled her head to him with one hand and rubbed her lower back with the other. His touch was light, but firm. He was there, but he wasn't pushing. As usual. Instead he simply asked, "Tell me what you need."

Grace sniffed against him and gave a short, humorless laugh. Pulling away gently, she looked down at herself and back to him, smiling sadly. "A t-shirt?"

He smiled back softly. His hands drifted down to the hem of her top and his fingers curled slightly underneath it. His eyes lifted questioningly. "May I?"

She nodded and he pulled. The sticking, cold fabric peeled up and away. Its texture, like chilled, uncooked pastry, pulled away from her skin and she instantly felt a little warmer. He tossed the shirt onto the back of his couch before hooking his fingers into the front of her jeans and snapping them open, he eyes on her face the whole time. As he opened and tugged them down her legs, Grace turned to the wall, suddenly shy at her exposure. As he knelt at her feet to help her out of her pants, she stared at his monthly calendar by the door. She saw today's date.

_Andrea 7:30 – Dinner at CheChe_

She closed her eyes against the unwanted information. But it was too late. She was now informed as to why he'd been so late in getting home. She'd been waiting for almost three hours when he finally showed. She sniffed and hoped he assumed it was from the cold. She shouldn't be surprised. In fact, she should be grateful he came home at all. She might have died of hypothermia waiting for a man who was asleep in another woman's bed, all warm and oblivious to his damp, emotionally damaged guest.

She sniffed again. Rigsby stood up, looking at her with angry concern. "Do you want me to call him?"

Another harsh laugh broke from her and she shook her head, quickly averting her eyes from the calendar, but he'd already seen her line of sight. Looking back at the wall, he saw the day's little box and what he'd written underneath it. Slowly, he turned back to her. She expected and feared an embarrassed explanation. Instead, he sighed sadly.

"She's not you," he said quietly. "None of them are."

She bit her lips, standing in her wet underwear and shivering uncontrollably. "You don't need to tell me—,"

"No," he agreed, reaching for her face again. "Because you already know. You know that you're it for me. I'm wasting my time. And I'm wasting theirs." Another kiss to her forehead. "That's all life is without you, Grace. Waste."

He said it plainly. A kind, devastating truth.

"I'm a mess," she admitted from the trap of his palms. Her father messed her up. Wayne messed her up. Between the two most important men in her life, she felt spun and reeled and jerked in every direction.

But one of them was capable of grounding her. One of them was the one person in her life she could just be silent and still with. He was a place of rest. Peace. A dry, warm place that she had no business abusing like this, but would always be welcome to do so.

Rigsby smiled. More of his old, boyish happiness crept into it. "You're not a bigger mess than me," he defied.

She smiled back. Ah, their old teasing. "Am so."

"Are not."

"Am so!"

He grabbed her and pulled her close. He tipped her chin and kissed her lips tentatively, questioningly. "Are not." His hands were warm. He used that convenient fact to stroke her arms and sides as she continued to shake from cold. She cuddled into the velvet of him, desperate for the safety of the brick underneath.

"Let me stay with you," she murmured pleadingly.

"As long as you want." The same old offer. She felt cruel and relieved that it was still there.

Feeling brave, she asked, "Can I sleep with you?"

She felt his ribcage contract slightly against hers. He was repressing his instinctual response to her question. "You can have anything," he promised roughly. It was the scratchy timbre that always surfaced with his desire. "Anything."

She plucked at his clothes. She led his hands to the clasp of her bra at her back. She looked him dead in the eye.

"I want to be your waste of time."


	34. Sly

**A/N**: This idea came to me when I was trying to figure out how far our pair would go in order to get around Hightower's ultimatum. Or maybe just Grace wearing a trenchcoat, looking fine and ordering death hits on Rigsby made me think about clandestine meetings. You know the kind; filled with weak-ass coffee, dark alleys, cold cigarette butts and no last names.

**Sly**

The booth at the back of the dingy saloon didn't allow for much movement. He leaned closer, running his hands over the sleek fabric of her raincoat, keeping his voice to a whisper.

"God, I miss you," he groaned into her ear just before he nibbled it gently.

She shook her head in admonishment and he lost his bite on her. "No, you don't," she corrected against his cheek. "You don't know me at all."

"Baby," he murmured pleadingly. "Let me take you home."

"Jessica," she corrected again in a whisper that matched his in pitch, but not in longing. "And no. Take me to your car."

He sighed into her flaming hair and nodded. "Kiss me first. Give me that much, Jess. Then I'll take you anywhere you want."

She slid a little closer to him, relaxing a bit at his innocent request. She nuzzled her nose along his jaw, peppering her path with tiny kisses. "Adam," she whimpered at him. Certainly not _to _him. He chaffed against it, hating how pretty another name sounded in her voice. She pressed her much-missed lips against his and kissed him gently. Suddenly he didn't care _what_ she called him.

He took the kiss deep. She might want a quick fuck in the back of his SUV, but dammit, he was going to make this one, pure kiss last as long as possible before he obliged. Sometimes he felt it was the only time he could really talk to her, let her know how bad he still had it for her, and not a word was passed, nor could one fit.

He cupped her cheeks and thumbed the soft skin just below her eyes. She hummed against his mouth, reveling in his touch. He roughly pulled her legs over his under the table until she was partially sitting in his lap. His lips assaulted her, prying hers open and dipping into the sweet recess behind. He wasn't allowed much, so he played the hell out of the few cards he still held. she went softer at his dominance, mewling adorably and plucking distractedly at his shirt.

"You taste like everything I want, _Jessica_," he rasped low and angry. "Like everything I love."

"No words," she mumbled, nestling closer but keeping the distance. She had precious little restraint as it was, and listening to him destroyed her. "You know that."

"Fuck no words," he disagreed in a lustful hiss. "I'll call you Jess, but," he caught her chin and made her look at square in the face, "if you call me Adam when I take you to the back of my car and lick you out, I'll fucking lose it."

She keened softly and trembled in his hands, hating the games she was forcing on her sweetheart. "No licking. Just fucking. You know that, too."

He pushed her legs off him and rose slowly, his expression flinty as he extended his hand to her. When she took it, he jerked her to him and fondled her roughly. Public place be damned. He fisted his hand in her hair, holding her tight and nosing to her ear once again.

"My car. My tongue. My fucking girlfriend. When you come against my mouth, who's name are you going to say?"

She gasped as he bit down wetly on her throat. Her eyes rolled up. Her hands, fisted in his shirt to keep him at bay, flattened out and stroked mindlessly across his chest. She was surrounded by him, unable to escape or resist. She couldn't think about anything except how they'd used to spend hours at this. Tonight-like every night that Adam and Jessica met-they only had now. She moaned a forbidden syllable.

"Waaaayne."


	35. Okay

**A/N**: I know, more post-break up angst and not fluffy, smutty happiness. I promise I'm getting to it. I'll even promise that my next piece will be part of the Tango series. Ya'll keep pesterin' about it.

**Okay**

"I'm not okay with this."

Grace blinked, holding her door jam harder as she regarded the man on the other side of it. She cocked her head at his angry expression.

"Not okay with what?"

Not waiting for an invitation, Rigsby simply stepped into her apartment, his eyes not leaving hers as his presence pushed her back into her entryway. He closed the door behind him without looking. Instead, he gestured to her.

"This." His hand moved up and down, indicating her clothes. "I'm not okay with it."

She huffed in annoyance as she looked down at herself. A grey suit. Black dress shirt. Knee-length skirt. Bare feet since it was late and she'd kicked her heels off once she'd gotten home. She looked back up at him and lifted her brows in overt confusion. "What is your problem, Rigsby? You don't like my suit? That's why you're here at 9:30 at night? To tell me that you don't-,"

"I hate it," he clarified with a rougher voice, moving towards her slowly.

She took an involuntary step back. She didn't get his game. She didn't get it and she didn't like it. Her glare grew colder at his vague, pissy attitude. "Then get out."

He flinched, his eyes going rounder at the idea of leaving, but only momentarily. Anger built up quickly and hot in his stare. "I've never seen it before. I have no idea where you got it. Or why. Or how much you paid for it. Or why you chose it over something else."

She groaned in frustration, lifting two fingers to rub her temples as she closed her eyes. "Wayne, please. Just leave. I don't know what you're playing at, but I-,"

He stepped directly into her space and put his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them gently. The fabric's weave was tight, but smooth. His fingers recorded its texture by rolling in circles. The contact seemed to pacify him considerably. His eyes softened as he whispered, "I didn't even know how good it feels against you." Suddenly his old, yearning expression appeared and Grace felt herself melt in its presence. "And I'm not okay with that," he reiterated.

Grace bit her lips and refused to back away from his closeness. She couldn't let him see how much it got to her by retreating. Instead, she retaliated. "I'm not okay with your aftershave."

His brow contracted. Now it was his turn to feel confused. "Why? It's the same I always wear."

Still biting her lip, she nodded. "Exactly. You smell like you used to. Like when you came home to me."

She saw the confusion leave him. Without a word, his spine went straighter. It pushed him more into her space. He didn't let her go as he spoke. "I'm not okay with your hair," he challenged softly. He reached up and caught a piece of it, looping it around his index finger. "You've cut it recently. Only about two inches. I didn't notice right away because you wore it up for five days straight."

Grace inhaled sharply at his perfect recall. He lowered slightly. Just a fraction. "I'm not okay with that."

She pushed her lower lip up, fighting the laugh and the cry that tried to escape together. "I'm not okay with the three personal days you took two weeks ago."

He didn't react. She snorted angrily and pushed at the few remaining inches between them, wanting him to feel her anger. "I had no idea where you went."

"I'm not okay with the fact that you leave at 5:00 exactly on Thursdays. It drives me fucking crazy. What the hell is so important that you have to leave right then?" His pitch was getting rougher. His grip was getting tighter.

Grace heard it. She felt it. It only pushed her buttons more. "I'm not okay with the fact that you're getting stronger. Your clothing hangs differently. Your body is changing, but I can't see how." A deep pull in her belly made half of her sentence a groan.

An aggressive spark flashed in his eyes. "I'm not okay with how men look at you in the office."

"I'm not okay with you letting them."

"I am _not_," he hissed low, "okay with you living your life without me."

Grace shoved his hands off her shoulders. "I am not okay with you coming in here and starting this shit all over again."

His rebuffed hands shot up and cupped her cheeks softly. His anger left him the moment he touched her skin. He could never, ever stay angry when he touched her. His eyes pleaded softly. "I'm not okay."

She waited for him to finish, only to realize that he had.

She sniffed and didn't push him away again. "I'm not okay." Her voice cracked as tears threatened.

He pulled her close, his hands running wild over her suit jacket. "When did you buy this?" he asked into her hair.

She sniffed again and choked on a laugh. "Last weekend. My others felt too warm in the humidity."

"You look beautiful," he murmured and kissed her hair. "I've wanted to tell you that all day."

She buried her face into his shirt and sighed shakily. "Thanks."


	36. Trouble

**A/N**: Hello, my naughty monkeys. It appears as though happy-go-lucky smut is everyone's poison and not haunted, sad-eyed angst. Fair enough. As promised, here is the next in the _Tango_ series. We're drawing ever closer to September, people. Season three is on the horizon. As always, reviewing is good for the skin. Hit me.

**Trouble**

Today was a good day.

Rigsby sat in his research office, buried in pryochemistry articles, reading about the latest breakthroughs from the science geeks in the FBI labs. Rigsby chuckled as he skimmed through a particularly verbose, polysyllabic theory. Nerds who were too jittery to be the pyrotechnics guy for Metallica had to go _somewhere_. Quantico was it. He perused their findings at a leisurely pace, not letting himself daydream about the last sixteen days and the little fireball that made him overheat just by visualizing her.

Sweet Christ. Who knew that reading dry texts about extreme temperatures and unstable compounds and blast waves would resonate so spookily in his personal life. Grace kept his blood simmering several degrees above normal. He became unstable just knowing she was in the same building as him. And blast waves? He snorted softly. She knocked him over on an hourly basis.

Which was why he needed to get his shit together and finish his work. Today -the good day- was his birthday. He'd mentioned it last night for the first time. Grace, nude except for a pair of bikini panties, had been straddling his equally naked body as he lay face-down on the bed. He moaned in exquisite pleasure as her clever little hands burrowed deep into his shoulder muscles, dispelling the terrible ache caused by hours of boxing. The physical trainers had heard about his sudden (if secretly selfish) agreement to fight younger cadets. He was an excellent offensive player, they noted. Would he mind taking on second years? Other third years? Attacker? Spotter? Boxer? Rigsby hadn't had the heart to say no, nor did he have the honesty to explain why he'd volunteered in the first place. So now, in his spare moments, he took on a kid or two. What was the harm?

"Ssssshhhit!" he moaned again as Grace found a knot just under his shoulder blade and attacked it. He went rigid under her intense massage.

"Wuss," she chided playfully, working the knot with firm- yet careful- pressure.

"Mean girl."

She laughed at the nickname he always gave her when her impish side appeared. He sighed with disgustingly pure happiness and murmured, "You should be nicer to me. It's my birthday in," he lifted his head to check the clock, "three hours."

Her hands stilled on his back and her eyes went round, not that he could see. "Your birthday?"

"Uh-huh." He jerked his shoulders at her. "More, please."

Instead of soft little palms caressing him, her nails dug deep and she raked him from neck to ass. He hissed laughingly.

"Why didn't you tell me before? It's your birthday tomorrow?" She sounded like she was smiling as she said it, but he detected a small note of hurt.

He craned his head over his shoulder to look back at her. "It's no biggie," he replied softly. "I don't do much on them."

Her hands went soft again and she smoothed them over the breadth of his ribs. He purred with relish. "Sweet baby," he praised as he dropped his head back down.

"Wayne..."

"Hmmmm?"

"I don't have a present for you." She sounded slightly mortified. Like she'd forgotten instead of never knowing.

Feeling too sore to twist again, he bucked up under her, indicating she stand on her knees. She did so and he flipped under her, settling down again and pulling her to sit on his groin. He grinned and stroked her legs on either side of him. Lithe and lovely, she sat perched above him, gazing at him earnestly.

"You," he said simply, luxuriating in the feel of her shapely calves. "You're my present. You honestly think a man could ask for more than a naked woman giving him a massage?"

She blushed and dipped her chin. "I mean it. I don't have anything for you."

He grabbed her waist and pulled her down on top of him. Her pert breasts collided into his chest and he nearly OD'd on pleasure as her nipples hardened against him.

"Hush," he rumbled as she settled onto his frame. "You're everything I want. _I_ mean it. Talking to me, walking with me, sleeping with me," he lifted her chin and smiled into her embarrassed expression, "just _be_ with me, Grace. That's the only thing I care about."

She smiled wanly and kissed the thumb holding her chin. "You _are _getting a present," she disagreed stubbornly. "And you're getting it tomorrow."

Rigsby smiled indulgently and lowered his gaze, deferring to her. "Fine. Just do all that other stuff and anything you get me will be gravy."

She smiled, the impish one he loved so much, and arched into him.

She had done that other stuff, starting with slipping out of her panties and turning him inside-out by making hot, slow love to him.

Now, for the first time in years, he was actually giddy at the thought of getting a present.

Not that he hadn't gotten presents before. Of course he had. Many, in fact. But he lived a relatively lonely life, keeping a small circle of friends and barely on speaking terms with his family. Presents were something he didn't expect. Each one had been a pleasant surprise: CDs of bands he liked, books on law enforcement, meals in nice eateries, and so on. Nice little gestures. He enjoyed them and felt pleased at the giver's thoughtfulness.

But Grace...

God, what _couldn't _Grace give him that he wouldn't treasure forever? Even if she spelled her name in macaroni on blue construction paper, he'd frame it. No, he'd bronze it. He felt so dopey with anticipation that his reading slipped from his hands, forgotten. He jolted as it hit the floor and he sighed with annoyance. He'd daydreamed again. Dammit. He really,_ really _needed to work so that the rest of the afternoon could be spent chasing more pleasurable pursuits.

He redoubled his efforts to read and had gotten four paragraphs in when a knock on his door startled him once again.

"Yeah?" he called automatically.

The door opened into the tiny room, Grace peeking in from the other side. "Hey," she greeted.

His reading landed on the table without a second glance. "Hey, you," he greeted back, smiling wide at her unexpected appearance. "What are you up to?" His eyes raked over her. Even in a simple purple baby tee and jeans, she looked like his dirtiest wet dream. He felt his mouth water at the sight of her.

She smiled backed and stepped into the limited space (his desk took up one-third of the room), closing the door behind her. She was backed into it so tightly that Rigsby didn't hear the lock as she slid it into place. "Nothing," she shrugged, looking innocent. "Just wanted to see you."

His heart melted in a puddle on the floor. "Then c'mere," her crooked his finger at her from his chair. "Lemme see you."

She chuckled as she took the two steps needed to reach his seat and, without ceremony, crawled onto his lap. She cupped the back of his head in both hands and kissed him like it had been years instead of hours since she'd seen him. He murmured contentedly and returned it, still shocked to encounter such a sweet taste as his tongue danced with hers. "You drive me so nuts," he whispered against her lips. "I can't even do my work without thinking about you."

"I'm sorry," she said contritely, though he detected a pleased note. "And unfortunately, what I have for you isn't going to help."

He broke their kiss and looked up at her hopefully. "You got somethin' for me?"

She grinned and pecked his nose. "You know I do. I promised you a present. I'm here to deliver."

"Ooooooh. Is it a dirt bike?" His eyes went wide like a little boy and he started patting her sides, looking for the bike in her snug-fitting clothes.

She giggled at his tickling probes. "Nope. Try again."

"A Lego village?"

"Strike two."

"Hungry Hungry Hippos?"

She laughed out loud and shook her head. "They were sold out."

"Damn," he rasped, looking disappointed. "I love that game."

"Sorry," she lifted her shoulders at him. "Nope. You can't find my present at Toys 'r' Us.

He bit his lips and gave her a slightly darker look. "Where could you find it?"

She lowered her face and nuzzled him softly. "Probably in the Yellow Pages under Escort Services."

"Niiice," he drawled out, idly nosing at her jaw. "So what you're saying is that you bought me the services of a girl named Sierra for a few hours?"

Grace's nails sank warningly into his scalp and he snorted at her jealousy. So freakin' hot.

"Your present. You want it or not?"

"I want," he answered roughly, nipping at her earlobe.

"Are you expecting anyone in the next twenty-eight minutes?"

He pulled back slightly and gave her a raised eyebrow. "Awfully specific there, cutie. No. No, I'm not planning on visitors." He raised his other brow at her. "Why? What's happening in the next twenty-eight minutes?"

She bit her lower lip, gauging him. When she kissed him again, she whispered so quietly that he was positive he'd misheard. "I'm going to go down on you. One minute for every year, birthday boy."

Rigsby jolted like she'd pressed a frayed wire into his skin. "What?" he rasped dazedly.

"You heard me," she continued to whisper, tiny little kisses accenting her words. "You're going to sit in this chair and let me suck you for twenty-eight minutes."

"Grace," he muttered warningly. "We've been through this. I told you that-,"

"And I told you," she interrupted, shifting on his lap, rubbing against him firmly, "I've wanted this for more than two weeks. I'm not waiting another second." Hazel eyes bore down into blue. They wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. "Unbutton your pants."

"Grace."

"Wayne," she shot back softly. "My clothes. Do you want them on or off?"

"Jesus, Grace," Rigsby twitched tightly underneath her. His eyes were getting darker. His body was getting harder. Her question had broken his voicebox. He stared at her hungrily, but made no answer.

"Ooon?" She took his hands and slid them under her shirt, guiding them until he palmed her bare breasts, pulling a gasp from him at the discovery of her lack of a bra. His fingers trapped her nipples, feathering them until they dragged stiffly against his fingertips. "Or off?" She gave her feline grin.

"Off."

The word gritted harshly over his lust-swollen tongue.

She stood carefully and, in the middle of his locked office, slowly stripped for him. Her shirt went first. She knew how much he loved her breasts. She arched lazily, letting her ribcage elongate and show off her sleek curves. She turned her back to him and unzipped her jeans, pushing them off and bending at the waist, giving him an eyeful of her bare ass as she pulled them and her sandals off. She wanted him to see. No underwear. She'd gone commando just for him. She heard him growl behind her and went instantly wet at the sound. It was crazy, given that they'd made love the night before and twice that morning. Why did they crave each other so constantly?

She looked over her shoulder at him and teased him with a wink. "Wayne? Open your fly or I'll do it for you."

Still staring at her like a dangerous animal, he opened his legs wide, angling his groin upwards until he was slouching low in his seat. Her stare told her exactly what he was thinking. _ Go on, I dare you. _

Grace laughed softly and knelt at his feet. Holding his gaze, she massaged his clothed erection with both hands, feeling him up. He pulsed under her touch and she mewled softly at his size. "I'll have to go slow," she murmured as she flicked the button and drew his zipper down. "You're so big. I might need more than twenty-eight minutes to do this right."

Rigsby groaned harshly. She tugged his pants and boxers down, gasping as his startlingly thick length sprang free. She swallowed and moaned at the sight. Everything feminine in her screamed with lust. Her entire being shrunk down to wanting one thing - sucking the cock in front of her. For hours. Days. Decades. She shivered and made herself wait.

Looking up at him, she barely recognized the man she loved. Molten desire -so hot and frightening- had hardened his features. His jaw was locked. His eyes were glued to her. He pulled high-pressured breaths through his nose. Even sitting, he towered above her kneeling form. Her chest swelled with adoration. This man...God, he was truly a sight to behold.

"Tell me you want it," she ordered him, blowing air gently over his tip. He jolted again. The smallest tip of her tongue eased out and traced the smallest circle on his throbbing shaft. "Tell me."

"Fffffuck," he drew the 'f' out long and heavy. The veins in his penis pulsed visibly as he held himself together by a thread. "Graaace..."

"Wayne," she breathed back softly, smiling at him from his lap. "Tell me."

He broke with a groan. "Suck me."

Grace broke with him. Her restraint. Her calm. All gone.

She swallowed him whole.

"Jesus!" Rigsby bucked as her hot, wet little mouth enveloped so much of him so quickly. He hadn't expected it. Hell, he hadn't expected any of this. "Baby...oh, fuck, baby..."

Grace, never having performed oral sex on a man in her life, moaned wantonly around his length and dragged her mouth back up to his tip, instinctively knowing to suck as she did so. When she got to the head, she pressed her teeth behind her lips, applying pressure through their softness, while her tongue painted him round and round.

"Grace." Her name croaked in a deep, cracked baritone. She looked up at him as she worked. Rigsby was already shaking. Already close.

"Yes," he rasped harshly. "Look at me. Keep your eyes on me."

Her eyes instantly fluttered a little at the flinty command before opening again. She took as much as she could handle again, trying hard to relax her throat and take even more. All of her girly magazines said that men liked it deep. She'd never had a reason to care until today. She felt him hit her tonsils and then sucked hard again, bobbing quickly at that depth.

"Baby," he choked again. "I...I won't make it...long...Christ, you're gorgeous...Please...baby?...Slow down...Lemme...lemme watch you...fuck!"

As much as she didn't want to, she obeyed. She didn't want him coming too quickly. Not this first time. She wanted to savor it. She wanted to drag him through as much devastation as he could handle, and once he was a quivering mass of jelly in a chair, then she'd finish him off. So she slowed her pace and made another achingly pretty noise against his cock.

She broke suction and licked him idly. "Never again," she swore to him, lifting his cock and lapping at his testicles. "You're never stopping me from sucking you again. Are we clear?"

"Yes," he panted deliriously. His blue eyes were clouding over, like cataracts. She was literally sucking him blind. And senseless. "Please," he begged mindlessly. "Don't stop. Fuck, Grace, please don't stop. You're...perfect...Christ, you're so perfect."

She hummed at his praise and slowly fed his dick into her mouth again. His hips were starting to thrust rhythmically up to her lips. She let him, wanting to feel his need. Returning to her Cosmo tips, she blew his mind with words.

"You're making me so wet," she admitted breathlessly as she cupped his balls. "I love how you taste."

He gave a labored hiss and he desperately tried to hold on. He was biting his lower lip, almost hard enough to draw blood.

"I can't decide," she continued, kissing his tip as he came close to exploding, "where I want you to come."

She sucked him deep again while Rigsby tried not to scream in ecstasy. His fingers tangled into her fiery hair, holding on for dear life as she worked him. She pulled up just long enough to ask, "Where do you want it, baby?"

The roaring, rutting, basest animal instinct answered her. "Your tits," he groaned raggedly. "I wanna come on your tits."

Grace rose up slightly, giving him a better view of her beautiful breasts. "Here?" she asked wickedly as she licked and sucked between words.

"Yes!" He was trembling violently now. It was only take a little...

She took him in her hands, holding him close to her chest. Pumping him fast and tight, she moaned to him, "Come for me, Wayne."

Rigbsy roared.

He ejaculated hard; white, hot jets spilling onto her cool skin as she continued to squeeze him. She gasped at the sensation. So soft and slightly tickling. A generous spray had hit exactly where he wanted. Her swollen, aching breasts felt tingly as his semen ran silkily over their curves. Her throat felt tight. Too much emotion created by a frightening moment of intimacy. She swallowed thickly and looked up from her splashed chest.

He was staring.

Sweat glistened on his brow as his eyes pinned her to her spot on the floor. Their intensity made her shiver, all nude and wet at his feet. She returned his gaze, wanting him to see she wasn't embarrassed. She felt nothing but satisfaction, despite the fact that they had lasted nowhere near twenty-eight minutes.

Without a word, Rigsby reached over to his desk and pulled his clean towel out from his gym roll by the phone. He unfurled it and tugged her hand gently. "C'mere."

She crawled up him again, settling herself in his exposed lap. Still silent, he dabbed her breasts, removing each spot of come with tender strokes until she was all clean and dry again. Once done, he tossed his towel to the floor and wrapped her up in his arms. Grace hugged him back and said nothing, curling up tight against him and resting her forehead against his throat. He felt hot. Much hotter than normal. She smiled at that. Her human torch.

"You're killing me." His whisper vibrated against her forehead. It was hollowed-out, devoid of everything but exhaustion and awe.

Her smile didn't waver. "Happy birthday."


	37. Late

**A/N**: You guys remember that weird ep when Grace kept smiling at Rigsby and Rigsby wondered out loud to Cho if maybe she still dug him? First off, it bugged me because of course she still dug him. She never said she didn't love him anymore, so that comment smacked of writers not paying attention to their own plot. Second, Grace getting smiley all of a sudden snagged in my brain. It wouldn't let go. Grace isn't smiley, and they'd broken up, so what gives? This is my take on it.

**Late**

She'd been too busy to notice. That was the biggest reason for leaving it so late. Between the crazies coming out with the warm weather and dropping bodies and Grace trying desperately to become a emotional robot in the last two months, it just never even occurred to her until something innocuous tipped her off. She should have paid better attention. Usually, paying attention was her forte. But ever since...

Well.

Ever since. Attention to certain things had become shockingly expensive.

Two months ago, after she'd dropped the bomb and leveled him, she just shut down completely. She wouldn't look at him. Not even for a second. She felt him moving in her peripherals and that was more than enough. She told herself it was just as much attention as she paid to Jane and Cho, and therefore it was normal. Of course, she looked at Jane and Cho. Doing so didn't punch her in the gut, so it wasn't a big deal. Looking at _him_, on the other hand, hurt like a mother. So she didn't. That was one attention she could no longer afford to pay.

Talking to him also had to go. It was another attention that had become too rich for her blood. No more silliness by the coffee machine. No more aimless conversations when they were partnered together. No more mumbled sentiments. God, definitely none of those anymore. So words with him were now stunted and case-related. Always. Again, it was all she could afford.

Her body, hating her for her treachery, had shut down. It wasn't talking to her anymore. Grace jutted her stubborn chin and didn't talk to it either. She ignored it when it was hungry. She silently shouted at it when it responded to his closeness. She petulantly gave it coffee, but only because it helped her think. Aside from bathing it and walking it around, she didn't do it any favors. Not until it stopped pining for a certain set of long arms, bright eyes and the shy smile that had somehow become her whole world.

She knew she was being pissy and unreasonable. She was only hurting herself, really. But a standoff with herself gave her something to focus on. So instead of focusing on the pain in her heart, she took delight in her growling stomach and neglected limbs.

Childish, yes. But it got her through the first month.

It was after that that she was finally able to glance at him without wanting to sob. It was better than that, actually. Looking at him, which until now had been so painful, actually made her feel a little giddy. Yes, they weren't together, she knew that. But something about the line of his shoulders as he walked by made her chest tighten pleasurably. Something about the way his hands picked up simple things like pens and cups filled her with a warm, pooling sensation. He didn't often look at her anymore, but when she caught his gaze, he'd smile hesitantly for her, unsure if he was still allowed to. It was that -her shy boy's smile- that worked on her just like brandy. It was so warm and sweet and intoxicating that she instantly gave him the smile that she had always reserved for when they were alone. And naked. His eyes rounded, surprised as hell to see it. Even when they were together, she would never have given him that smile in public. Never mind work. He inhaled sharply and looked down, still smiling unevenly, but confused as all getout.

Grace knew she was sending mixed signals, but something was rippling just under her skin and she couldn't seem to stop herself from responding openly to the man she'd broken in half. Infuriating situation aside, he was still impossibly attractive. He was still kindhearted. He still emitted the faint smell of maple syrup, which had always driven her crazy as she buried her nose in the crook of his neck and demanded to know why he smelled so deliciously sticky sweet. And, despite everything that had happened, she had never,_ ever _stopped wanting him.

Still, her sudden overpowering urge to be near him baffled her. She was once again paying full attention to every little thing about him and not twisting in agony. And every day, she felt herself getting closer and closer to him, letting their hands brush, keeping her hair off her shoulder should he want to squeeze it reassuringly, walking too close for a professional relationship. She had been so good at stiffling those inclinations for a whole month.

What had changed?

Seven weeks after their breakup, she realized.

She glanced at the tampon machine in the ladies' room at work one day as she washed her hands, and she slowed her soapy fingers until she stood completely still. The metal box on the wall subtly advertised several different brands of menstrual aids. She stared at it through the mirror, her eyes drilling so sharply it could have cracked the glass.

Her period.

Wait. When had been her last period?

She checked her watch for the date and did the math.

Six weeks.

Grace swallowed, took a deep breath, and did the math again.

Six weeks.

She caught herself on her slick palms and she leaned into the counter, suddenly lightheaded. They slipped on the frictionless surface and she barely caught herself in time before she fell forward. Shaking, she rinsed off and reached for a paper towel, staring at herself in the mirror and watching sweat break out along her hairline.

She was six weeks late.


	38. Research

**A/N**: Because I'm not a mean girl, here is a continuation of _Late_, as requested by some. Written because Grace, being Grace, would Google the hell out of her condition. (Note that the following text wasn't actually Googled and was cooked up purely in my noodle. Dear God, don't listen to any of it if you're pregnant. Unless you find yourself overpowered by your attraction to Rigsby and think he might be the father. Then go nuts.)

**Research**

(Google Result Number 3**)  
**

_Early Behavioral Indicators During the First Trimester_

_Dr. Ahmed Zheela, John Hopkins University_

After confirmation of pregnancy via doctor-administered testing, the subject will experience some if not all of the following behavioral departures from her normal state. Though not unusual, it is imperative for the subject to recognize these changes in her own personality as due to her altered biochemistry. Hormonal increases and unpredictable doses into the bloodstream can have unforeseeable effects. Such changes are as follows:

1) Anxiety and Hyper-Awareness: The subject is now fully aware of her impregnated condition. Such knowledge affects women differently, though all go through various degrees of shock, especially if the pregnancy was unplanned. She will react differently to the smallest things, aware that they now affect more than just her. Dietary habits are usually the first things to be considered and/or altered. The subject often begins to shun caffeine, sugar and high fat foods at the beginning of her pregnancy, knowing they can have an adverse effect on her unborn child. Driving habits have also been noted to change. Some women become overly-cautious, while others simply take more care in following traffic laws. This awareness also modifies physical comportment. Women often carry themselves differently, often unconsciously so. Their hands and arms are drawn more closely towards their stomach. They often pull back at the hips which creates a small defensive posture more easily protected by her hands. Prior research also indicates this posture is a precursor to dropping into the fetal position, instinctively covering the womb, should danger present itself.

2) Sleep Patterns: Sleep is also affected. Anxiety, as listed above, can often be the trigger for sleepless nights for pregnant women, however hormones can cause the opposite effect, making the woman feel exhausted due to the increase in estrogen and the body's constant endeavor to keep the fetus hydrated and fed. All other bodily functions become secondary. It is vital she listen to her body's need for rest.

3) Inter-Personal Interactions: The subject may find herself reacting differently to the people she shares a constant proximity to. It has been noted that family and blood ties often feel stronger to pregnant women, due to the instinct to build and maintain a protective network of helpers and protectors around her during her vulnerable period. Such behavior can also be seen in other pack animals such as lions and wolves (See Dr. John Addler, _Science_, May 2008). As with these particular animals, the subject may find herself particularly drawn to the father of her child, unconsciously moving in closer contact to him for the reassurance of his protection. The subject may become overtly aware of her mate's movements while in her sight, and may become emotional when he leaves it. This has been particularly noted in couples who share a deep emotional bond, e.g. married couples, and thus both partners have a serious stake in the outcome of the birth. This behavior, however, rarely surfaces in women who became impregnated as a result of a one-night stand or in women who suffer from psychological issues pertaining to trust. Being ingrained with the imperative of survival, both for herself and her child, the subject only exhibits such affection with the fair certainty it will be returned.

-Full article can be viewed in the John Hopkin's OBGYN archives.


	39. Yours

**A/N**: The next in the Late series, dedicated to Schnerbles, because she's going away and begged rather creatively for this before she left. Here you go, schnookums.

**Yours**

An envelope sat on his desk when he returned late that night from the field. The office was dark. Cho, his partner for the day, grabbed his stuff and grunted his goodnight, eager to get out of there. Wayne picked it up for the square center of his desk, its pristine whiteness marred only by his name written in a script he'd know anywhere.

He opened it, knowing its sender but baffled as to what she needed to say in letter form. Two pages greeted him. One in _that_ writing. The other, a printout from a doctor's office. He read the letter first, far more interested in what she wanted to tell him.

_Dear Wayne,_

_I'm sorry._

_God, I've been staring at this piece of paper for fifteen minutes now and that's all I can think to say. I am so, so very sorry. There's something I need to tell you, but I'm afraid that if I say it to your face, I'll get too emotional to do it properly. And there's so much I need to say. Most of all, I want you to know that I don't expect anything once you've read this. You don't even have to answer it. I simply want you to know. To keep it from you would be cruel and I never, ever want to see you hurt. Well, anymore than I already have. So I'll just say it now._

_I'm pregnant._

_And yes. It's yours. One of the many reasons I had to write this down was because I couldn't handle the possibility that you would ask. Despite our mutual agreement to move on and see other people, I need to be honest now and tell you that I have yet to do so. See other people, that is._

_Attached is my doctor's test result. I wanted to be sure before I broke the news._

_In a few weeks, I'll inform Lisbon. I won't mention you. It's no one's business who the father is and I'll keep you out of it as best as I can. She'll relegate me to desk duty in several months, after which I'll go on maternity leave. Hopefully, I won't be gone more than two months._

_Please, please, please don't see this as an obligation. I have a little money put aside. I'll look into daycare and other stuff as the time gets closer. I don't need any financial support and I certainly don't want this to interfere with your life in any way. I feel terrible even telling you, knowing that you're an honorable man who would want to do the "right thing", whatever you see that as. But it's unnecessary. I promise you, I can do this on my own. I'll be sure to get duplicates of ultrasound photos and hospital records, so you can see how everything's going. I'll be sure to mail them to your apartment. It was worrying enough to leave this letter on your desk, never mind pregnancy pictures._

_Okay. I'm done. I hope you're well. You look happy these days. I'm glad. Sadness doesn't suit you._

_Yours,_

_Grace_


	40. Livid

**A/N**: Eeeeeeek! I can't stop now! This series won't leave me alone! Doesn't it realize I have real work to do? Doesn't it know I need to earn my paycheck so I can eat? No, apparently not. The next in the _Late_ series.

**Livid**

Well, it seemed like the John Hopkin's boys were right about the anxiety and hormones. Grace lay in her bed, wide awake and staring vacantly at the dark ceiling above her, avoiding her clock as it ticked over the same sixty numbers over and over again. It was late. She wasn't sure how late. She didn't like checking. Hence the ceiling. She was pretty sure that since she felt so scared, it was mostly anxiety that was keeping her awake. Then again, she was also fairly certain that, because she was feeling exposed and lonely, hormones were lending a hand.

She put her hands over her stomach for the millionth time that day. Her warm palms heated the skin around her bellybutton. She smiled weakly, hoping some of that warmth transferred to her little one. She'd laughed softly when she'd Googled pictures of a fetus at seven weeks. Apparently, her baby looked like a sea monkey in a bubble. He was currently residing in oxygen-rich tissue, sipping idly from her available nutrients with his own little straw. She smoothed over her stomach muscles. He was welcome to sip whatever he liked. She'd eaten enough salads and fibre for twenty babies in her lifetime. Carefully, she pressed her fingertips down. She wanted him to feel her presence. The last thing she wanted was her little guy sitting in the dark feeling just as lonely as she was. Nope, from here on out, she was going to make sure that he was awash with kisses and hugs and plush toys. He was never going to know the pain of not having Wayne as his father. Part of her didn't really think it was possible. A child from such a daddy would always feel that part of him was missing. But her rational mind told her to quit being ridiculous. Her baby would be fine with just her. They'd make their own little world. She'd give him anything. Everything. And he'd never know what a colossal mess him mom truly was.

A ball of tears blocked her throat. Damn hormones. They messed with her almost constantly now. They made her feel guilty about the pathetic way she'd broken the news to Wayne. Almost as guilty as they made her when she thought about her baby growing up in his warm, patient shadow, then remembering that it was only her smaller, infinitely weaker shadow that the little one would seek shelter in. Her child would barely know him. Worse, Wayne would almost certainly find someone else to settle down and have a family with. The idea of him with another woman making other children while she cradled his firstborn in her arms and watched from afar made her sick. And lonely. God, with the loneliness.

She sniffed and coughed. No. This was not how she was going to spend the next seven months. She would not be a mopey mom. It was pathetic. It was useless. And her sea monkey deserved better. She would be strong, if only for him. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She and the monkey needed sleep. Internet doctor's orders.

Flipping on her side, she snuggled deep into her bed and pointedly shut out the room around her.

Her peace barely last five minutes. A thunderous pounding smashed into her living room door and jolted her into a sitting position. One hand went to her stomach. The other, to her Glock on the night stand. Who the hell was trying to break down her door? Slipping out of bed and tiptoeing quietly, she made her way to the front room.

The pounding didn't stop. They crashed, one after the other, into the flimsy wood and rattled the chain. She slowed as she approached it, letting her fingers slid over its cool surface before letting her eye settle against the peephole. She inhaled sharply at her visitor.

Wayne.

Her squinting eye widened as she watched him through the distorted fish bowl lens. He was still in his suit. It had been picked at, his tie missing and his shirt pulled and open at the collar. His long body was comically bendy and wiggly, like a spaghetti noodle. But she didn't laugh. His face was inches from hers, his gazing drilling into the little glass button, sensing but not seeing.

"Grace," he barked at her. "I hear you. Open this door."

She gulped. She knew his voice, of course, and yet didn't recognize it now. His tongue was cutting the words as they left it. They were hemorrhaging rage.

Setting her gun on the entry table by her purse, she undid the deadbolt and slowly slid the chain out of place. She opened to him uncertainly, looking up, as always, into his steely expression.

"Wayne?" she greeted questioningly.

He didn't answer. He merely barged in, sweeping by her and turning quickly around. Facing her, he reached above her head and slammed the door shut, keeping his arm braced over her once he'd done so. Grace shrunk back until she was flush against the door. He followed, leaning until they were inches apart. Frightened by his behavior, she kept herself small in front of him, just daring to look up.

His voice might have dripped with rage, but his eyes were swirling with frost. She crossed her arms over her chest, fighting off the chill. In her tank top and boy-cut panties, she wasn't prepared for such frigid temperatures. With his trembling free hand, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, well worn and heavily creased. He held it under her nose.

"Are you fucking kidding me with this?" he hissed at her.

Her eyes widened at his question. "My letter? No!" she replied earnestly.

He snorted a gust of air. She felt his anger blast over her. She gulped again. His presence was triggering reactions in her that she could scarcely control. His lowered head and broad shoulder line was doing nothing to help her 'Inter-Personal Interactions,' as Dr. Zheela had called them. She'd been feeling so miserable before this moment. Now her paternal 'protector' was here, trapping her with the wall of his body, his body heat reminding her of the many nights she'd burrowed into it and giggled when he curled right back around _her_.

She shook her head. Focus.

"I meant it, Wayne. There's no need for this. Really. I'll be okay."

He threw the paper down between their feet and used that now-free hand to roughly cup her chin. "Again, I ask if you're fucking with me," he rasped darkly.

Anger and tears filled her eyes. "God, Wayne. What do you want to hear? That I'm sorry? Again? Is it your job? Is it your girlfriend? Geez, I promise not to tell anyone, okay? I'm sure Cho and Jane and maybe Lisbon will guess, but they're good people. They'll keep their guesses to themselves. Nothing is going to change. Stop looking at me like I did this on purpose just to mess up your life."

He gasped and the frost broke in his eyes. They went round, shocked at her statement. His arm above her slid down the door and fell against her other cheek until he was cradling her face in his hands. His gaze moved all over her features, the way he hadn't done in months. She let him look. She wanted him to see her sincerity. He had no cause to be mad. She'd handle this. He'd never see so much as a Beanie Baby, she'd make sure of it.

His gaze on her lips, he whispered. "You're the mother of my child and I find out with a Post It and a doctor's note?"

The anger drained out of him right in front of her. Disbelief and sadness replaced them in a flash. Her brow contracted in confusion. "I didn't know what else to do. I told you that. Plus," she slanted her eyes away from his as he continued to hold her face, "I didn't want you thinking this was some weird bid for attention. It's not, I promise. It's just a fact. Our protection failed at some point. Now I'm pregnant."

It was the first time she'd actually said the words out loud, even to herself. She flinched as they left her. They must have been electrified, because they caught Rigsby and made him flinch, too.

He gave a gravelly moan and yanked her close, his hands traveling from her face, down her back and gripped her hips. Grace gasped at the suddenness of his move. For the first time in ages, she was wrapped in him again, so warm and soft and hard and sweet that she couldn't stop her arms locking around his shoulders and hugging him back.

"Jesus Christ, baby," he whispered into his hair. "How could you do this to me?"

Whimpering and rubbing her cheek against his in an unbidden need for male reassurance, she whispered back. "I don't understand. Tell me what I'm doing that's hurting you so bad."

He pulled back in amazement. "You left me," he answered in simple, devastating words. "And now you're leaving me all over again. With my baby." Still holding her hips, he held her away from him and looked down in awe at her flat stomach. He dropped to his knees, staring avidly.

"My _baby_," he rasped as he pulled her tank top up from her pantyline, until her tummy was revealed to him. He slid his thumbs along its smooth lines. Grace gasped again, her eyes fluttering. He used to touch her that way when she pinned him to their bed, his hands on her waist as she rode him, gently or savagely. He always screamed from both.

"Yes," she replied, her eyes still closed.

He looked up at her blissful expression and growled. Tugging at her arms, he pulled her down to her knees as well, pulling her tight into his chest once again.

"My _woman_," he claimed softly in her ear.

"Hmmm," she hummed noncommittally. "No need. You have another."

"Shut up."

She pulled back a bit to gauge him. He'd certainly never told her to shut up before. She cocked her head, unsure if she should be angry. He pressed on. "I've dated. That's all. They're nothing to me, not next to you. Once I read your letter, I called her and broke it off." He gripped her shoulders and shook gently. "You. You're what I want and you're mine. You gave yourself to me."

Her hands were stroking along his chest, under his jacket. She couldn't seem to stop. Building up a network of helpers during her vulnerable state, right? Or maybe she was just stupid in love with him. Either way, she felt affection radiating out of her pores, saturating him with Damsel-In-Distress vibes. He felt them. His grip tightened in answer to them.

"I didn't," she denied wanly.

He snorted angrily again at her forgetfulness. Reaching down, he picked up her poor letter from where he'd thrown it and opened it to her. His finger caught one sentence. "I'm pregnant. And yes. It's yours," he read to her. His finger then skimmed to the bottom. "Yours, Grace."

He tossed the letter aside again and pulled her close again. His height, even on his knees, his scent, his eyes, Grace couldn't protect her heart against his aggression as he put one hand on her belly and one on her cheek. "See?" he kissed her as he spoke.

"You're both mine."


	41. Implacable

**A/N**: More from the _Late_ world. I believe that if Rigsby felt Grace's hesitation regarding his wish to be involved in her life while her eggo is preggo with his baby, he'd behave as written here. Basically, a steamroller. Props going to everyone, just for being awesome and reading my stuff and being so sweet.

**Implacable **

That night, he slid into her bed without her verbal permission and pulled her into the long shelter of his body. Other than wrapping her up in his long limbs and grumbling when she tried to move, he didn't push anything. He didn't speak and he didn't touch her sexually. He simply wanted to sleep with her, and it appeared that he didn't really care whether she wanted him to or not. He'd had enough of her calling the shots. Now that his baby lay nestled between their prone forms, his deference to her wishes took a hike. Grace fell asleep, too tired to fight him and too relieved that he cared enough to ignore her meek protests. They were empty anyway. She slept like the dead in his bullish embrace.

The next day, Rigsby called his bank and transferred his modest savings to Grace's account. Again, he didn't even check with her, nor did he inform her once the transaction was complete. He told his bank-issued accountant not to take the money back, should Grace try to rewire it to him once she'd discovered it. It was hers and she was going to keep it. He wasn't sure what fifteen grand was worth in the expecting mother world, but he knew it was better than nothing.

That weekend, he packed his duffel bag and took it to her apartment. He didn't want her to feel overwhelmed by his silent decision to move in with her, so he kept his needs basic and left everything else at his place. She could always send him home when she wanted time alone, just as she could tell herself that one duffel bag didn't constitute a live-in boyfriend. When she opened the door and found him holding his bag and gazing at her with mild expectation, she shocked them both and said nothing, merely opened the door wider and let him in. From then on, he stayed every night, holding her close and occasionally allowing his fingers to slip through her hair.

Nothing was said at work. In the weird little world they were making, neither of them felt that anything had really changed. That hadn't officially gotten back together. Wayne might have been kinda-sorta living with her, but she hadn't offered and he hadn't asked, so technically they weren't. They were sleeping together, but not_ sleeping _together. And their previous sexual relationship had resulted in a baby, but they had already paid for it with their breakup, so neither felt they could be retroactively punished for withholding the news that they were soon to be parents.

Thanks to Wayne's implacable decision-making, they could delude themselves into believing that they hadn't violated the rules again.

Meanwhile, Grace now believed that her hormones had not only made her needy, they had turned her into a simpering waif. She didn't object, not once, to any of these terrifying changes that Wayne was so casually inserting into their lives. She didn't mention the sudden increase in her account that had turned her into a thousandaire. She pretended not to see the second toothbrush that had reappeared alongside her own. She overlooked the much larger suits that now hung next to hers in the closet. And she lay pliant and willing at night when he molded himself to her, sharing his addictive warmth and reassuring presence. She rationalized that it was no use fighting, not when he'd clearly made up his mind to be with her. Best just to go with it and not upset herself. It wasn't good for the baby to get agitated.

He became an apartment ninja, too. Books on pregnancy and child rearing magically materialized on her coffee table and night stand. Healthy food overflowed out of her fridge and cupboards. A handrail mysteriously installed itself in her bathtub. And, her personal favorite, a onesie in newborn size appeared on her neatly made bed with an iron-on that said "My mom's a fox" across the tiny chest. Alone when she found it, Grace had laughed until tears sprung hot and heavy down her cheeks. She wasn't sure what was so damn funny, but that little onesie that could have doubled as an adult leg warmer just slammed the whole ridiculous truth straight home.

She was pregnant and Wayne was going to stick.

She decided that when he got home from the gym that day, it was finally time for a talk.


	42. Gone

**A/N**: Another series? Dude, what's up with that? Where are all my one-shot ideas? Anywho, here's my next yarn. I'm going to be cheeky and ask that you push my reviews up to 280. I'd adore the love...or even the indifference, if that's what you want to post. I heart all of it.

**Gone**

"Announcement, people."

Lisbon's voice tipped three heads up in the bullpen as she walked into the center of two desks and one beaten leather couch. Their occupants gave her their attention, Rigsby and Cho leaning back from their computers and Jane lifting half-assedly from the couch. Once Lisbon was satisfied she had their attention, she pressed forward, wanting to keep this as short as possible.

"Right," she put her hands in her black jacket pockets and took a deep breath. "Just letting you know, Van Pelt will no longer be working with us in this unit."

Cho's brow contracted with mild confusion and Jane's head cocked as it always did when something vaguely interested him.

Rigsby's eyes shot wide, darting from the empty desk across from him before darting right back to his boss. It had been vacant for the past few days now. They'd all come into work and it just...sat there. Empty. She never kept photos or personal things on its surface, so nothing really tied her to the stapler, tape dispenser, or other bits of office supplies, aside from her fanatical need to keep them organized in a certain way. It had irked him, not knowing where she was. But he had assumed it was the flu or a family thing back in Iowa. She hadn't said anything, but her absence had been okay'd by the boss and worked around, so he figured nothing was really amiss. Meanwhile, he had been regarding her lonely-looking desk as a placeholder until she got back. He had imagined her sitting in it, quietly getting on with her work, unknowingly giving him the stability of being in orbit around her. Glancing at it now, he suddenly felt panicky. It wasn't a placeholder, it was a vacuum. Sucking. The air, his calm, his mind. Sucked clean out the window.

"What are you talking about?" he asked worriedly.

Lisbon noted his lost little boy expression and mercifully ignored it. "Just what I said. Grace is no longer with us. Interviews for her replacement will follow in due course." She bit her lips and dipped her eyes briefly, an acknowledgment that she wouldn't say more, before bringing them back up. In the name of professionalism, she kept her gaze between her two agents, even though she just spoke to one. "I'm sorry, guys. I had no say in this."

Cho's mind sped through the various possibilities and figured on two of the most probable scenarios. One, Grace had been transferred for her abilities and was needed for a covert op that Lisbon couldn't elaborate on. Two, she'd quit the CBI and hadn't wanted a fuss.

He exhaled sharply and made his peace with either one. He liked Grace. He wished her well. One blink to his boss in acceptance and he went back to his work.

Jane's mind sped through considerably more. He also imagined those two likelihoods and filed them away under possibilities, but his puzzle-love needed more information. He regarded Lisbon closely as she stood for a few seconds more.

Rigsby's mind processed nothing. Shock had short-circuited everything but paralyzing fear. He couldn't think. Only feel. And the scariest feeling was that something was horribly wrong. Grace wouldn't leave her job, not even for him. She'd fought long and hard for her position and held it in such a mean grip that her desk probably bore fingernail marks. This was her life. Suddenly she's friggin' Houdini. And Lisbon, always the first to tell them everything they needed, had given him squat. And she knew it. He'd seen the look she'd divided between him and Cho. She was sorry. Which meant that whatever was going on wasn't something she agreed with.

His chest froze up. His ribs lost their ability to expand for his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

"Boss."

She gazed at him, hearing everything in that word. She bit her lips again, shrugging. "Sorry."

As she slowly walked back towards her office, Jane spoke for the first time.

"Lisbon. Your favorite color. Right now."

She turned to him with a quirked, incredulous gaze and shook her head in befuddlement. "Blue," she tossed at him, waving her hand in dismissal and walking away.

Jane nodded, satisfied with her answer, and settled back into his couch. When he spoke, he spoke to no one in particular.

"She's still in California."


	43. Stonewall

**A/N**: Be cool, reviewer daddy-os. This doesn't mean the other series are finished. More will come for _Tango_ and _Late_. Promise. And when have I lied to you? Aside from the dozens of lies I post and call them fiction? When? WHEN? Apologies to whomever suggested this word. It was ages ago and I can't remember who offered it, but it stuck in my head because I like it.

**Stonewall**

He called her cell phone. He called her main line. He went by her place several times and looked in every window. Hell, he even emailed her.

Grace was gone.

Not missing. Lisbon was acting like her absence was unfortunate, but accounted for. She knew why, if not where, Grace had gone. So Rigsby wasn't allowed to fly off the handle in panic like he really wanted to. He wasn't allowed to file a Missing Persons report. He wasn't allowed to tear her place apart looking for clues, even though it was clear from scanning the rooms that she'd taken everything that wasn't nailed down. Her furniture, her books, even the ceramic kitty that sat on the kitchen window sill. All gone. Nor was he allowed to rail and scream in the office and demand to know what the fuck was going on. Apparently, that was considered inappropriate. The unspoken advice of everyone he came within spitting distance of was always the same: Move on. Be like Cho. Be like Jane. Be like Lisbon. Just let her go.

Well, fuck Cho. And fuck Jane. And double fuck Lisbon since she was obviously holding out on him.

His easygoing silence at work became sullen silence. His open, honest gazes became furtive and accusing. Like always, he did what he was told. But unlike always, he made it clear that he thought they were limping along on three legs and they were idiots if they thought they could just ignore the absence of the fourth. And not just any fourth. Fuck the interviews in due course. There was only one person capable of completing their unit. He didn't bother screening the knowledge that that same one person happened to own his heart and soul. That was irrelevant. People weren't simply allowed to vanish without a trace in the CBI. What was this? Stalin's Russia? To hell with everyone acting like never seeing her again was no big deal. Because it was. It was the biggest damn deal since Amelia Earhart disappeared over the ocean, never to be heard from again.

With this sense of immensity firmly in place, Rigsby began to search.

He started by submitting a formal request to Lisbon, asking for fuller disclosure regarding her removal from their team. Request denied. _Fine._

He went to her yoga class and spoke to her instructor, hoping she might have let slip her plans or location. No luck. Grace had merely emailed her and canceled her payments.

Abusing his professional access, he tracked her bank activity. All he was able to discern was that her California account had been closed and her money rewired to an off-shore account. He had no authority in Singapore. His hunt ended there.

He pulled her file (now found in the Previous Employee catalog), looked up her emergency contact, and called her folks. He must admit, he wasn't prepared to hear Lisbon's words parroted to him in Mrs. Van Pelt's pleasant midwestern accent. "She's fine, Wayne," she told him evasively. Rigsby shook his head in wonder against his phone and asked again. "Please, ma'am. I know she and I aren't together anymore, but I'm really worried. No one will tell me anything. I need to talk to her. I need her to tell me she's okay. That's all, honest. Please?"

The older woman sighed into his earpiece. He heard tiredness in it. He felt the same sense of dislike in her words as he'd felt in Lisbon's. It drove him even crazier. Seriously, what the fuck was wrong with everyone? What was with all this cloak and dagger crap? Where was his beautiful, tall, soft, smiling, cruel, kind (ex) baby?

"Wayne," her voice jolted him back. "I'm sorry. You were good to my girl. I know you were. I never heard her happier than when she was with you. But you need to stop this now. Listen to me when I say that she's fine. Whatever she told you, or didn't tell you, she had her reasons. I'd ask that you respect it."

Rigsby huffed in amazement, but kept his reply calm. "I understand." _Like fuck, he did_. "If you speak to her, tell her..." he paused, unsure of how to finish that sentence. The answer had stalled on his tongue. Screw it. "Tell her I love her. I love her and I'm scared outta my wits here."

There was hesitation in the silence on the other end. He waited it out.

"All right," she said finally. "_When_ I speak to her. I'll tell her."

"I _love_ her," he reiterated hard, not wanting Mrs. Van Pelt to dilute his message with some pale word like 'care' or 'respect' or 'miss'. "Tell Grace I'm going crazy without her."

His bluntness seemed to strengthen her voice. "I will. I'll tell Grace that you love her."

"Thank you."

He hung up.


	44. Truculent

**A/N**: The continuation to _Late_. The talk. Remember, _Gone _and _Tango_ are still a go. To those I might have confused, _Gone_ and _Stonewall _are a new series where Grace is missing. They're not part of _Late_. Word props going to Caritas1979, you gave me a whole messa good words to choose from, so much so that I'll probably use more of them right after this.

**Truculent**

He got home right on time, gleaming with sweat and still wired from lifting more weight than he should have. He knew it wasn't good for him, but living with Grace and taking platonic to new and ridiculous heights was taking its toll. His body was constantly responding to her closeness now that he spent all day and night with her. It was also responding to the knowledge that she carried his baby. Both made him so crazy that he was sure if he cut his finger, he'd bleed testosterone. It took every anti-asshole warning in his head at night to make sure that he held her tight, but kept his hands from doing anything...well...handsy.

He dropped his bag by the door and headed for the kitchen, tugging out the OJ carton and tipping the opening to his lips.

"Something wrong with my glasses?"

Grace's voice startled him and he coughed a little as he brought the carton back down. Busted.

"No. I, yuh. Didn't...know where..."

"Cut the crap, Wayne," she chuckled softly, moving around him to pull a glass from the cupboard. She handed it to him and he smiled as he accepted it sheepishly.

She watched him dutifully pour juice into his cup before speaking. "I think it's time for the talk now."

He slowed as he put the juice back in the fridge, keeping his back to her as he closed it. His brain zipped through every possible answer and each one of them sucked worse than the last. He chose silence. And not turning around.

She felt his stubbornness and chuckled again. Maybe the hormones were making her calm for once. Or maybe it was simply resignation. They couldn't keep this up. But she loved him all the more for pretending they could. But it was time. She rattled off a series of facts that machine gunned into his wall of denial. If it started a fight, so be it.

"We're having a baby. You're living in my house. You won't deny it if Hightower asks if the baby's yours. You'll get angry if I deny it, too. They'll transfer one of us for sure now. Probably me, since I'm 'with child'," she snorted the words, annoyed that the office would no doubt see hers as a delicate condition. "So I'm looking at losing what I sacrificed everything for anyway. And then there's you." She looked at the inverted triangle of his back and waist and tried not to let her mercurial hormones sidetrack her by noting how unbelievably sexy he looked in his gym clothes, all sweaty and hot.

He sighed in defeat and turned to her. He gauged her closely, unsure of what to make of her words. "There's me?"

She smiled weakly. "Why are you really here, Wayne? I would have let you help. Eventually," she tempered. "But you didn't need to do any of this."

"Any of what?" he asked, his head cocked questioningly.

Her brow raised in speculation. "Your food, your DIY, your money," she paused slightly, "my bed." Her eyes dropped modestly. God, it killed him every time. How many times had she screamed with ecstasy in between his sheets? On the kitchen counter? Against the wall? In his car? And yet, she blushed saying the word 'bed'. There were some days when he didn't think he could adore her anymore than he already did, then she pulled some self-conscious pose and threw him for yet another loop.

He wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to say, however. He took a step towards her. Her hormones noted the black shine of his hair and the way his damp shirt hugged him in a way that she envied. She swallowed and exhaled slowly, not moving away. He stopped just shy of touching her, looking down with intense surety.

"What did I say that first night?" he asked quietly. His voice always sounded scruffy when he whispered. Soft and scratchy and warm. Like wool. It made her heart turn over.

"You said several things," she answered evasively.

He clicked his tongue at her in reprimand. The primal sound made her stomach quiver. "What was particularly noteworthy?"

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, looking at him plaintively. "You said that I'm...we're...yours."

Blue eyes drilled her. He nodded slowly. "Exactly."

She flinched when his eyes went soft in a blink and his fingers were on her cheek, tracing the bone's path from the corner of her eye to just near her lips. He watched his progress, entranced. "I'll do anything you ask, Grace. Except leave. I'll be your friend no matter what. I'll be your lover, if you'll let me. I'll father your child, in that you get no say. And I'll help you, God as my witness. But," he tensed, suddenly unsure of himself. "I'm not leaving you. I can't. Not even if you insist. So please don't ask me to." He smiled limply. "You know I hate upsetting you."

She closed her eyes as he caressed her face, absorbing his words carefully. Meanwhile, his other crept to her hip and pulled her closer, his lips coming dangerously close to brushing her forehead.

She sighed shakily. "We've been here before," she pointed out softly. "What are we supposed to do about work?"

"If you recall, I had a plan last time. And I still think it's a good one."

The woman in her was responding wildly to his gentle attentions. Blood had been surging between her legs for days now. Every catch of his scent in the air made her crazy with desire, both at work and now at home. His DNA was alive and growing inside her and it had set off all kinds of bells and whistles that wouldn't let her think beyond fucking him raw. Over and over and over. The moment he'd said 'lover', she'd forgotten half of her vocabulary as her brain exploded with lust.

She shivered and edged closer to him. "Tell me," she begged softly.

He gasped as she tipped her head and pressed her forehead into his lips. He firmed them up, kissing the smooth skin and inhaling her shampoo's scent, growling with encouragement. He knew what she meant.

"I love you," he clarified his argument. "I love _you_," he put his hand to her belly, "and I love _him_. Or her. You are _both_ mine and I'm not going anywhere and..." he broke off and groaned as her hands moved tentatively up and down his chest, her cool palms lighting ice fires across his sweaty body. "Oh fuck, I need you," he moaned, totally unaware that he'd uttered his undying wish out loud.

"Wayne," she whispered reverently. "I...I want..."

His eyes snapped to hers, sharp and questioning. "I'm not asking," he rasped hungrily. "I'm okay. We don't have to-"

"Ssssshhhh." She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing his gallantry. Suddenly spellbound, she watched her own finger trace the lips that haunted her day and night. Rapt, she murmured to his mouth. "I've missed you so much."

His breath caught in his chest and made him shudder violently. "Grace."

"Please." Small hands were pulling his. Leading his. Bedroom. "Please."


	45. Bereft

**A/N**: Okay, here we go with more from the _Gone_ series. Remember, Grace is missing. Not preggo. I'd point out that Rigsby is lovesick and deeply concerned in this series, but when is he not? Word props going to Caritas1979 again, for being so freakin' apt.

**Bereft**

He was lost.

For three agonizing months, Rigsby was absolutely lost. His desperation - which he'd kept at a tenuous distance - closed in on him with every tiny lead that went cold or went nowhere. He'd stopped counting how many of them turned out to be blind alleys. It depressed him. Almost as much as work was starting to depress him. He could tell Lisbon was getting tired of his constant distress. He was keeping his shit together and doing the job, but he was losing weight. He was eyeing the parking lot for Iowa plates every morning. He slowed every time he passed a certain empty desk. He continued to stare at each unit member, accusation flickering in the blue. He'd posted a BOLO with every hospital, local PD and morgue in the state of California: Caucasian female, 27 years old, 5'9", long red hair, hazel eyes. When they ordered Mexican food, he asked the restaurant to hold the cilantro, even though the only person who objected to the herb was no longer with them.

And at night, he hunted.

This is what particularly annoyed Lisbon and Cho and what struck a familiar cord with Jane. Rigsby went through the motions from nine to five, but at 5:01, he was a ghost. God knows where he went. But the next day he was back at his desk, eyes bloodshot and face unshaven, bent over his work as if he hadn't spent the night prowling through the streets like pissed off stray.

The day he came in wearing the same suit from the day before, bedraggled, exhausted and dirty, Lisbon decided she'd been lenient for long enough.

"Get your ass in my office," she muttered as she passed his desk. He simply stood and followed, his haggard face drawn tightly.

He shut the door and she turned swiftly back to him, palming her temples, raking her hair in frustration. "You've gotta stop this, Wayne. Right now. Or I'll suspend you."

"Stop what?" he asked in a detached tone.

"Oh, don't you dare," she snarled up at him impatiently. "Stop looking for Grace. Start going home at night and sleeping for a change. Shower. Change your clothes. Drop the pissy attitude. And let. Her. Go."

He gazed at his boss, barely registering her threat. "No," he said simply.

Lisbon pulled a long, high-pressure breath through her nose, her head pulling back in anger. "Wayne," she warned hotly.

"Boss," he answered quietly. "I'm here. I'm working. I'm doing what needs to be done. What I do after hours," his gaze slanted left, "no offense, is none of your business."

"I can do a lot more than suspend you, agent." Her words were getting harder as her fear for this man pushed her towards more unpleasant threats. "I can recommend you for a psych evaluation."

"You can even fire me. I'm not stopping until I find her."

"Maybe she doesn't want to be found," Lisbon posed tersely. "Maybe she made a clean break with us. With you."

Tired pain surfaced in his eyes and tightened his mouth. His voice didn't change. "Then she can tell me so. When I find her."

"Get out," she huffed, waving her hand at the door. "I mean it, Rigsby. I won't warn you again."

He nodded. Lisbon wasn't sure if he was heeding her order, or simply acknowledging that his next inevitable infraction would be his last. He walked out without a word, closing the door behind him.

Jane watched with keen eyes as the younger man made his way back to his desk and got on with their latest case. Raising his brows slightly, he took in the agent's gaunt and tired appearance, noting with empathy the lack of care paid to the body that was searching so desperately for answers. His gaze narrowed, knowing. Rigsby had changed drastically in the past few months. Jane, ever the curious cat, had decided a few weeks ago to start following him at night. He knew Rigsby's hunger. Oh yes, he certainly did. And while his affection for Grace was profound, he doubted he would have taken such a piercing interest in her absence were it not for Rigsby's acute agony. They had that agony in common. Jane despised their sudden affinity.

So he followed him. He watched as Rigsby visited Grace's old haunts, asking again if anyone had seen her. He watched her picture handed over bars and desks, the stack never decreasing in size as her ex lover doled them liberally, his contact information written carefully on each back. And Jane watched as the young man passed out IOUs to various government workers so that he could peek through endless avenues of identification. The electric companies, gas companies, telephone companies, water companies, rental car companies, residency registrars, anything he could think of was triple checked for any variation of the name Grace Van Pelt.

Jane admired the man's dogged fortitude.

He did not, however, share it.

The night following Lisbon balling her agent out, Jane slid into a leather booth at a tavern across town, smiling benignly at a face he'd come to know well over the years. The man showed no emotion at his smile. Indifferent, Jane pulled a photograph from his pocket - a photograph that had thousands of twins - and slid it across the table with two fingers.

The man looked at the smiling redhead on the table, then back up to the smiling blonde on the bench.

"Find her," Jane said. "Thirty grand bonus if you do it the next two days."


	46. Tiny

**A/N**: Okay, celticgina begged me for weeks to update _Tango _and I think I owe her. I've been agitating her with lots of salty angst and she prefers sugar. Lots of sugar. So, without further ado, here is the latest for _Tango_. Word props to the same chica. Everyone excited about September? Woot!

**Tiny**

They'd been dating a little more than a month. Already in that short space of time, they were practically living together. More accurately, they were practically breathing the same air at all times. Classes aside, they were together nonstop. Morning, noon and night. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Nearly 24/7 and - it was just a matter of time - 365 days a year. And yet they never got sick of each other. She didn't want nights with the girls, nor did she suggest that she needed more alone time. He didn't want beers with the boys, nor did he stay late at his office to work. She was early every time they agreed to meet. He stayed in her modest, roommate-infested apartment way past the walk-of-shame hours between 5am-8am. The three other girls living with her were now used to this imposing figure moving respectfully through the communal areas and into Grace's room, not to reappear until breakfast when he padded quietly into their kitchen and whipped up some saliva-inducing meal, which he then transferred to a plate and sauntered back into her room with. He stayed until his own schedule dragged him away, or he walked her to her morning class.

They liked him because he was unusually attentive to Grace and had a watchful, slightly broody hush about him.

They hated Grace because when they _did _hear him, he was trying to muffle an angry sexual roar that shot tingles straight to their toes. All of them were cadets like Grace, and all of them shared her slightly standoffish approach to macho-looking, male agents-in-training. The men in their classes often saw those girls as too butch, preferring their polar opposites: models, strippers and beach bunnies. As a result, the girls stayed single, or casually dated to ward off the lonely spates. None of them had ever seen the rare combination that was Wayne Rigsby. Macho, absolutely, but also...something else. Something softer. Something more knowing, and yet, less self-aware. Huge, but shadowy at the same time. Humble, but having all the elements of bravado. He simply chose not to assemble them. He was a strange creature, that was for sure. But he was physically striking and, while he treated Grace with a deference that each of them vehemently envied, he obviously fucked her like a sailor would a two-dollar whore. Their envy quadrupled.

His male friends and acquaintances fared no better. Suddenly the only one among them who had voluntarily lived like a monk was dating a supermodel. And, more to their stunned consternation, she was a supermodel that wasn't a skank. On one of their rare trips out into public, Wayne and Grace had run into his artillery class buddies and got roped into having a drink with them. Sitting 'round a booth in a rowdy tavern, the boys had planned to alternate between razzing Rigsby in front of his hottie about his supposed shortcomings and shamelessly ogling her while she sipped her white wine spritzer and behaved like a bored brat as they hammed it up.

Instead, they discovered she was a wolf in hot chick's clothing.

Not only did she smile when they told off-color jokes, she told two or three of her own. She laughed at their stories about Rigsby, but kept her eyes soft and rubbed his arm consolingly, letting him know that she was only laughing _with_ them and not _at_ him. She gave them an imperious nod when they suggested tequila shots, mostly to test how much of a good sport she truly was. She collected most of their hearts when she drained her eighth shot, set the glass facedown on the table, and said, "You boys let me know when you want to start drinking."

The men in his orbit weren't deaf either. Ten minutes after she'd enter his office, the thin walls filtered more information than they'd ever want about Rigsby's prowess as a lover. They learned he was big. Everywhere. He was more uninhibited than they'd ever given the quiet man credit for. He was ridiculously generous to her, though none of them could really fault him, given the fox factor of the girl. And his staying power was nothing to sniff at. It was clear that the couple was trying to stay quiet, but hours of fucking in a tiny space doesn't bode well for silence. The purely-male corridor in which Rigsby worked couldn't help but overhear. The man was a god.

As admiration and jealousy built steadily around them, they stayed perfectly ignorant of it. Grace rose to the occasion of boy's night, but she did it only for him. She wanted Rigsby to be proud of her. She wanted him to walk among his friends, smug in the knowledge that his girlfriend could hold her own and wasn't a whiny, naggy, unfun buzzkill that he had to make excuses for. He felt the same. Her apartment wasn't just hers. When he stayed with her, he was trespassing on the goodwill of three other women in that house. He appreciated their acceptance. It made him feel like less of an intruder. As a thank-you, he cleaned up his and Grace's dishes every morning. He spoke when spoken to, polite and respectful as his momma taught him to be. He replaced the groceries he ate. He sprang for pizza every week or so. He put the toilet seat down when he was finished. And he tried his very best to make love to Grace as quietly as possible. He often dragged them to the floor, mindful that her bed slammed against the wall during their rougher sessions. And he did it all without a second thought. Those girls were tied to Grace, hence their good opinion was vital.

Both he and Grace nurtured their tiny little world in every way they could. It was a universe of two, sometimes feeling so small and precious that it could fit in a nutshell. And yet, the reality was so much more. Their focus on their nutshell existence kept them from seeing the rolling waves of effect that it had on the people around them. It never occurred to them. Not even once.

People always notice true love.


	47. Ang Mo

**A/N**: Okay, another string added to the crazy-ass braid I'm weaving here. Everyone still with me? This one is a continuation of _Gone_, _Stonewall_ and _Bereft_. Grace is missing. (BTW, anyone notice Hannah on the promo season premiere of Bones? Seriously? Booth hooked up while on tour? How many hot blondes _are_ there in Afghanistan, exactly?)

**Ang Mo**

Jane's man came through.

No shocker there. Jane knew the guy was a freakin' Rembrandt at his job. Art always comes in various guises and the man was the best at what he did. Jane paid him his usual fee, plus the bonus he offered for speed. He wired the money. His man left his findings in their usual drop place. That man, John Ash, the best P.I. money could buy, didn't even blink at the shift in target. If Jane wanted information on a serial killer name Red John, as he had for so many years, then Ash would gopher everything he could on the psycho. If he suddenly wanted information on the present whereabouts of a sweet-looking redhead from west Iowa, then Ash would root her out in ten hours flat and collect his carrot. And did so. After all, psycho killers tended to operate off the radar. Sweet-looking redheads from west Iowa? Were easy as pie to track. You only had to know where to look.

Ash checked his account and smirked gently. The bump in the total told him that Jane had been satisfied with his findings. He tipped his fingers to the screen in a small salute. Always a pleasure.

The next day, Jane sauntered by Rigsby's desk and dropped a single slip of paper under the suffering agent's nose. Jane felt nothing but smug pleasure as it flittered from his fingers and onto the keyboard. Lisbon was an angel and all, but honestly. The woman couldn't have invented a crueler torture for her agent, not if she'd been commissioned by the Grand Inquisitor himself. Jane knew it wasn't deliberate, but still, the result was the same. Hence, he pulled out his usual I-don't-work-here-and-I'm-zany-so-rules-don't-apply-to-me card and interfered as he saw fit. Lisbon would never know. Or rather, would never prove otherwise. Because Jane didn't just spin plates. He spun them in the dark. No one would ever have any idea how many were going at one time.

The paper glided gently into Rigsby's line of sight. He looked up in curiosity, but Jane was already gone, walking into the kitchen with his teacup. The picture of innocence.

He looked back down.

_Ang Mo_

_1294 Clara Vista Drive_

_Tonight 9PM_

His eyes narrowed. The note didn't make any sense. Ang Mo? What did that mean? It sounded like Korean takeout or something. He looked up again, ready to call across the space and into the kitchen to ask Jane what the hell, but the words jammed in his throat. There was something... He could just make out the slight indentation of writing on the other side of the note and flipped it in his hands.

_I told you she was still in California. _

His questions died.

The message branded itself into his mind as he quickly stuffed the note in his pocket. It didn't matter if he lost it. The information was never leaving his memory. His spine pulled him up straighter and he threw himself back into his work as if the last ten seconds hadn't happened. For the next few hours, he would be the idyllic little worker bee.

Jane had found Grace.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was dark when he found the place.

Rigsby eased his SUV onto the side of the road, not pulling up to the large, yet upscale warehouse. He wanted to look at it first. Get his bearings. He scanned their visible security and made a note of the other buildings in the immediate vicinity. He did so calmly. He wasn't too worried, not yet anyway. Jane had handed him a note. He hadn't yanked him into the john and frantically given him the address and told him to run. Plus Lisbon had been cool with this - whatever it was - for three fuckin' months. That meant that Grace wasn't in trouble.

Or so he hoped.

He hopped out of the car and flipped the locks. No sense risking company property on a personal errand. Gravel crunched under his boots as he walked up to the guard, making it clear that he wasn't lurking. His height, his jeans, his dark leather jacket made the guard watch him carefully as he approached from the road. Rigsby followed the line of the chain-link fence, making his way to the man. Not many giants ambled straight up to the booth, so the guard furtively kept his hand on his holstered gun.

Rigsby saw. But he didn't slow his steady pace until he was right in front of the guy and just in front of the electronic gate, staring down calmly through the plate glass separating them. He hadn't planned to, but he pulled out his badge and flashed the guy. "I need in."

The guard blinked. His watery gray eyes clearly hadn't expected to see a cop. "Why?" he asked vaguely.

Rigsby pressed his tongue into his teeth. Usually he sucked at lying. Now it slipped through as easily as breath. "911 call came through. Woman claiming she's been attacked at this address. I heard it over the monitor and offered to take it since I was close." It have him cause to enter. It gave him reason for being in plain clothes. It brought him closer to Grace.

The guy squinted doubtfully. "I didn't hear nuthin. And I've been here since five."

Rigsby snorted. "She said she was doing inventory when she got hit. She probably didn't come out because for all she knows, it might have been you." The guard looked at him like he was crazy, so he hedged. "Or it's bullshit teenagers making prank calls. Point is that I need inside to check it out."

The guard still balked. "I didn't hit nobody," he defended lamely. "Been here since five, like I said. I don't know what the fuck goes on in there. 'm just paid to sit and watch."

"Great," Rigsby affirmed. "Then let me in. I'll take a look, then call it in." He waited a beat. "It's probably nothing. We get these calls all the time. People can be such assholes, ya know?"

The universal opinion that people are indeed assholes seemed to bring his gray eyes to life somewhat. "Amen to that."

Rigsby nodded and gestured to the gate. "I'll be ten minutes. Tops."

The guy nodded and a buzzing noise told Rigsby that he'd been cleared. The gate trundled open slowly and he slipped through, tipping his chin to the guard as he passed. "Much obliged."

He walked up the black tarmac and towards the large metal door on the front of the structure. He saw cameras everywhere. He clucked his tongue and kept walking. No reason to assume he needed to hide his approach. He pushed down the metal bar handle and to his surprise it gave. Moving quickly inside, he shut it behind him quietly, the latch clicking softly in the silence.

Another click, much louder, and a cold point pressing into the back of his head told him that the direct approach had been a very bad call.

"Who dah fuck a you?" a heavy Asian accent asked him.

He put his hands out at his sides, wide and empty. "Be cool, man. There's no need for that."

"Shut dah fuck up," the voice spat at him. "What you want? What you do heah?"

Rigsby kept his tone low and calm. "I'm looking for someone. That's all."

"Who?" The word clipped impatiently at him.

Rigsby grasped for the only straw he had. "Ang Mo," he answered, praying that the word meant something. Anything. _Jesus Christ_. He needed a bullet in his brain about as much as he needed...well...a hole in his head. He waited, not pushing his luck by saying more.

The felt the man behind him considering. He was encouraged. Suddenly the metal point pulled away from his head and he let himself breathe out raggedly.

"How you know Ang Mo?" The man pulled at his arm, indicating he turn around. He pivoted and leveled his gaze in the much shorter man. He had the classic flat features of the Chinese people, or some country of mid-Asia. Working in California gave him an excellent understanding of Asian facial indicators. Flat cheekbones and thin epicanthic folds on the eyelid were common among the Chinese. Heavier eyelid folds, rounder features and those cute little upturned noses were more prominent in Southeast Asian countries like Vietnam and Thailand. Flared cheekbones and longer craniums suggested northern countries like Japan. He might have been horrible with accents and language identification, but he was damn good at faces. This guy was Chinese. Almost definitely.

"Just take me to them. What I have to say isn't for the help." He jutted his chin arrogantly. If he wanted the guy to buy his act, he needed to play the part. _Fuck the doorman_, his expression said. _Take me to someone important_.

The man's eyes flared with indignation. He still held a gun, though he had the decency to point it at the floor. After regarding Rigsby for a few seconds more, he stuck the gun in his waistband and nodded curtly. "Dis way. Move your ass."

He turned and walked back into the belly of the dark and seemingly empty warehouse. Rigsby followed close behind, watching as they approached a lit corner to another metal door. They stopped just outside of it and the shorter man raised his fist and knocked carefully. Someone barked words that Rigsby didn't understand on the other side and his companion opened the door and they walked in.

Rigsby gasped.

The room was little. At least, little compared to the structure it was housed in. Twenty by twenty, if he had to guess.

It was a club. Or something like a club, anyway. It was dimly lit. People were scattered in plush chairs and sofa, their drinks and other recreational drugs littered low-sitting coffee tables in front of them. The men looked like older business man, all of whom were Asian. The women were almost certainly prostitutes, if their ages, slinky clothes, beautiful faces and overacted fascination with the men were any indication to go by. It was clearly a party after a hard day's work. Rigsby watched as a pretty little brunette leaned over and vacuumed up a messy line of coke from a mirror before licking her finger, dipping it in a bag of white powder and offering her white digit to the elderly man who's lap she was occupying. The old man smiled sagely and sucked her finger between his teeth, nibbling it while the girl grinned like a maniac. There must have been thirty couples in the room who were similarly engaged.

But one such couple captured his attention immediately.

A man sat at the back of the room on an elevated step above the rest. His seat was away from the others. A host's chair. The man himself was a gracefully older Asian man in a gray suit and red tie. There was no table before him. No drugs or booze cluttered his area. His position was one of an observer. No question about it. He was talking to a woman as she draped herself over the armrest of his chair, perching suggestively as he spoke quietly to her. She giggled and fawned shamelessly, nodding at everything he said. He handed her a banded stack of hundred dollar bills, which she took without a second glance.

"Show me again." Rigsby heard the man say over the din.

The woman laughed musically and weighed the stack lightly in her palm before playfully bending it back and watching the individual bills zip by as they escaped from under her finger. She tossed it back to him. "Ten thousand...and three hundred."

Rigsby heart froze in his chest. His sweet-looking redhead from west Iowa had always been good with numbers.

And there she was. Poured into a sinful dress and laughing cordially with the leader of an Asian drug syndicate. It all clicked in his head with a speed and certainty that belied his usual care in forming hypotheses. Grace was knee-deep in an undercover drug bust.

_Fuckfuckfuck!_

His fear didn't stop him from noticing the obvious. Jesus Christ Almighty, she looked beautiful. He almost didn't recognize her. He watched as her eyes, usually so cool and watchful, sparked with lazy amusement under smoky makeup as the boss gave a nod of approval at her little parlor trick. She bowed her head in a mock curtsy, playing the modest genius. As she did, her wondrous hair fell against her cheek, a firewall of softness that Rigsby knew smelled like apples. He'd lost count of how many times he'd buried his head in her throat and felt her lower her cheek to his, her hair falling around him in the exact same way. He'd been surrounded by red and the scent of an orchard and it startled him how close he came to never leaving that spot under her chin. Why should he? Everything he ever wanted was right there behind a curtain of red hair and against the softest skin he'd ever touched.

He watched that curtain now as she pushed a strand of it back behind her ear. Three months of agonizing about her suddenly dropped in his stomach and his knees buckled under the immensity of relief. He groaned quietly. In the bustle on the room, no one heard.

His companion gestured impatiently and they made their way between the couples to the boss. The man in charge looked up to his doorman, then beyond him to the white giant at his back. His eyes narrowed angrily. He let loose some rapid Chinese and the two talked animatedly for a few seconds. Rigsby didn't notice. His gaze had fused to hers.

Grace had raised her head the moment the doorman had approached and her eyes were instantly pulled to the taller, infinitely more terrifying man behind him. No one was looking at her. So when her eyes went round with horror and her mouth dropped slightly, they didn't see her break in character. He saw one word leave her lips in a broken denial of what she saw. _No. _ Her head shook oh-so-slightly. She pleaded with him silently, begging him to turn heel and disappear. Not to ever come back. He wasn't supposed to be here. Didn't he understand? Go. Go right now and please, baby, stay away from this place. And - he was damn near positive - he saw frantic love boiling hotly with panic in those lovely eyes.

It took everything he had to do nothing.

Instead, he waited calmly for the two men to finish their conversation. After a few more heated exchanges, the boss turned to Grace. When he spoke, his English lilted with a mild accent, far less grating than his employee's. "What do you think? Is he a cop?"

Grace's expression had already melted back into one of relaxed amusement. She smiled lazily at her boss, then let her gaze wander up and down Rigsby, taking shameless stock of his body. Goose bumps broke out everywhere her eyes caressed him, even as his hackles rose at the dangerous stranger who had taken over her face. His badge, his dead giveaway, burned like a lit briquette in his pocket. She looked back to her boss. "He's awfully pretty to be a cop." She turned back to the doorman. "Why the hell did you bring him in here? We're having a party and he doesn't fit the..." she winked at her boss, "...dress code."

The boss snorted and pursed his lips in agreement. "Agreed. Why the fuck is he here, Zhu-fang?"

Zhu-fang the doorman shrugged tersely. "He ask for you. I bring him."

The boss raised his brow in curiosity. "He asked for me? By name?"

Rigsby was about to nod, but Zhu-fang shook his head quickly. "No. He ask for her. He want to see Ang Mo."

The boss's brow went even higher. "Did he now?"

Rigsby didn't react. He did, however, see the flash of surprise in Grace's eyes. She buried it in a flash.

"Mmmmm," she hummed appreciatively.

Her companion turned to her again in his seat. "My pretty Ang Mo. Do you know this man?"

She examined her guest with lustful, but innocent interest. "No," she dripped the word like honey. Her gaze met Rigsby's again and she smiled her feline smile before turning back to the man. "But I like him." She turned on those big, liquid eyes and batted them like a little girl, pouting brazenly. "Maybe someone sent him as a present. Can I keep him?"

The boss laughed uproariously at her overt tactics and Rigsby's heart thumped hard in his chest. He was making her work hard to keep her persona and keep him safe at the same time. He fought his instincts to just start punching and not stop until every man was on the floor before scooping her up and running her straight to Mexico. Instead, he waited.

Grace kept up her little girl face until the boss relented. "Shameless girl," he chided affectionately. "You're worse than my children. Take him. I suppose we can afford two Ang Mo at our party instead of just one." He patted her ass gently as she stood up. She giggled and leaned down to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, Eric."

She slithered down the step and took her new toy by the hand. "Your name is Jimmy," she informed him playfully, loud enough for Eric to hear. "Welcome to the party."


	48. Happy

**A/N**: You know what? Looking back at my last several chapters, I haven't given you people a good, nasty sex scene in ages. It's all angst and suggested naughtiness. That's wrong. That's a gross violation of everything I stand for. I've strayed from the formula! I've ignored my roots! It needs to be rectified immediately. This is a continuation of _Gone_, _Stonewall_, _Bereft_ and _Ang Mo_. It comes free with a 'happy' ending. And I mean, like, the backdoor Thai massage kind of happy ending.

**Happy**

His fingers caught on fire the minute she slipped her hand into his and casually led him to a plush sofa on the far side of the room.

It was even darker in that corner, almost as dark as the black velveteen cocktail dress that she was wearing. Rigsby stared down at it, shocked at her attire. That damn dress must have been in a hurry. It barely stuck around long enough to cover her from cleavage to upper thigh. His knuckles brushed along its ridiculous softness at her hip. He inhaled sharply. The thinness of the material could be felt even in that minuscule touch. His body was coiled so tightly with questions and fear and lust that when she kittenishly put her hands on his chest and pushed him down into the seat, he fell like a rock.

Keeping up appearances, she crawled into his lap, mewling and curious, as if she'd never had the pleasure a thousand times before. Rigsby grunted with effort, the familiarity of her weight making him deliriously happy when he _should_ be paying attention to their dangerous situation and _not _delighting in her scantily clad body sliding along his.

"You stubborn bastard," she whispered through her kitty cat smile. Her eyes had yet to lose their frightened glaze as she flayed his jacket open on either side and set about opening his shirt, one button at a time.

Eric was looking on with detached enjoyment. His little pet was clawing at her new plaything. He liked giving her presents. He liked watching her healthy appetite for them. So if she wanted to maul this poor soul who'd stumbled into his joint before finding out who the fuck he was, it was the least he could do. His Ang Mo liked pretty things. And she found this man pretty. To Eric's rather simple view, that meant that she now owned him. At least until they found out his identity and what to do with him. But for now, she could play.

Rigsby did his best to keep his hands to himself as she shimmied and rocked in his lap, her character, Ang Mo, obviously taunting an unfortunate trespasser. But he remembered this. Oh God, did he ever. And he'd missed it. Never mind when she'd gone missing and torn a hole in his life, but before. She'd left him. She'd left him and he'd been an absolute wreck. The memories of her closeness had driven him so crazy that there were many days when he didn't think he'd make it into work. He just couldn't face seeing her. Knowing what they'd shared. Knowing that she didn't want it anymore. Didn't want _him_ anymore. Those thoughts had made him wonder if he was clinically depressed. Now she was in his lap, exposing his chest as her fingers flicked lower, pretending to look for a wire that she knew wasn't there while taking predatory pleasure in undressing a handsome stranger. He groaned behind clenched teeth, his dense musculature rippling wildly underneath her.

She kept her feral smile in place. Her eyes stayed terrified.

She leaned forward, as if to kiss him. "What the hell are you doing here, Jimmy?" she asked through her phony smile.

"Looking for you," he gritted quietly. "Fuck, you can't keep touching me, baby. I've missed you too much. I can't take it. I can't concentrate."

A half-frightened, half-relieved snort of disbelief huffed between her ruby lips. "I have to. Eric thinks I'm searching you," she paused and licked his mouth for effect. "Ang Mo would. She hates cops about as much as she likes men."

Rigsby bit his lips, tasting her on them. His eyes nearly rolled. She tasted even better than he remembered. "What's going on?" He was careful not to say her name, even at a whisper.

She was performing beautifully as she continued to tug at his pockets and frisk every inch of clothing she could reach while stridently seducing him. Only Rigsby knew better. She was trembling violently, her fear evident in the shaky explorations of her fingers. He kept his eyes on her face. His hands, however, inched their way until they splayed lightly over her bare thighs on either side of his hips. Her soft skin all called to him, teasing him with more memories. His grip tightened a fraction. Her search slowed as her eyes closed briefly at his touch.

"Long story," she murmured as she leaned to his side, hiding her face from the room. "I'm Eric Yang's accountant. I was in one of his clubs one night when he approached me. He introduced himself as the owner and bought me a drink." She gave a nervous laugh into his shoulder. "He liked my hair, he said."

"He has excellent taste."

She smiled wanly and continued as she moved to his left inner jacket pocket, carefully fishing in it and pretending to find nothing. "I knew who he was. I took a chance and insinuated that I was a bookie. He took an interest. He was looking for someone good with numbers."

"Who does he think you are?"

She moved to his right pocket. "Leah Catterson. It's the name I gave at the time. I informed Narcotics about my conversation and the immediately set up her identity. They moved my bank account to fit with my story about overseas activity. They moved me to a new apartment to keep them from finding Grace Van Pelt. Eric is very thorough in his employee checks."

She leaned over to a table by the chair, pinching a small amount of white powder from a baggie on its surface. She brought it back to him, smiling wide all the while. "I'm sorry," she whispered through the grin. "If you're not a cop, he'll assume you got my name because you want to score." She balanced the pinch on her index finger just under his nose. "Snort it. I'll note that you had to in my Narcotics report."

Rigsby stared at her over her finger. "Jesus," he breathed in amazement. "Are you sure that's necessary?"

She nodded. To anyone in the room, she was assuring a customer that their product was clean. Was affordable. Was his every single dream come true. "He won't let you leave if he's suspicious. A cop wouldn't take blow right in front of him."

Rigsby nodded slightly. He hadn't so much as dropped a lick of acid in his entire life. He had no idea what to expect. "What will it do to me?"

A tiny bit of warmth entered her smile. God, she missed her boy scout. She cupped his cheek and took a risk. She lowered her finger just long enough to brush a kiss over his lips. He immediately kissed her back. It was so full of heat and longing that she moaned in his mouth. When she pulled away, she kept her hand on his face. "It will make you happy," she whispered.

Her kiss galvanized him. Without another word, he grasped her hand gently, brought her finger back under his nose, and inhaled sharply, snorting the hit. Knowing he was a coke virgin and his first reaction would be to sneeze and reject the powder sticking to his sinuses, Grace swept forward and kissed him again. Hard and with every ounce of sincerity that had built up over the last three terrifying months. She'd worked alone in this lion's den they were currently sitting in. She'd slept alone in a foreign bed, unable to call anyone because Leah Catterson's phones were most certainly tapped by Eric. She couldn't talk to anyone outside of the Narcotics team about her assignment. Lisbon had been made aware of the situation, then kept updated, but not included. Grace had also told her parents that she was going to be difficult to reach for the next few months because of work, but that she was okay. She'd walked into this warehouse every single day for three whole months, never knowing if her identity as a CBI agent had been uncovered. Never knowing if a bullet waited for her behind that heavy metal door. Never knowing if she'd ever again see the man she was deeply in love with, and to whom she hadn't even said goodbye.

She should have known he'd find her.

Her very own bloodhound. Their breakup had wrecked both of them. Had she really thought that he'd simply let her disappear the way she had?

She felt his face contorting against hers as he fought his body's rejection of the drug. But his lips didn't stop moving with hers. She opened her mouth to him, wanting him deeper. Wanting him everywhere. And wanting him safe, which meant they needed to keep this up. She thanked God that both motives meant that she got to keep touching him.

She slid down his throat, nibbling him just the way he liked, no longer pretending to seduce him. "You'll have to take another, Wayne. Can you do that for me?"

He pulled her closer, coke and kisses driving him crazy. "Yes," he murmured into her hair. "I can take more." He nuzzled her ear and groaned hotly. "Fuck, you smell good."

"You too," she replied absently, moving lower to his exposed chest, kissing her way across his pectorals. They tensed and quivered under her attention. She'd never had such a dizzying effect on any man before him. "I missed you so much," she confessed into his skin.

His erection, already prominent under her, jolted at her words. Her mouth watered at the memory of it. So thick and rigid and talented. And comforting. She hummed with desire, remembering that coming against Wayne felt like coming home.

She reached to the baggie and took another pinch. He looked at it, then at her again. "Won't he expect you to partake?" he asked curiously. She smiled again. His pupils were dilated. She wasn't sure if it was the coke or the kissing that had changed them. She shook her head. "Employees never take the product," she murmured quietly. "Can't trust a cokehead in your organization, now can you?"

Rigsby gave her a lopsided smile, lowered his face to her finger, and snorted again. "Fuck!" he hissed tightly, the sting of a foreign substance making him wince. She swooped in again, covering his reaction with her face. She rubbed her nose against his, knowing how much the drug was irritating it.

"S'okay," she whispered soothingly, stroking his arms. "It'll pass, I promise."

"Grace," he gritted against her lips. "Christ, I need you so bad."

Her eyes fluttered shut at the deliciously familiar feeling of his aroused body underneath hers. "Me too," she confessed in a whimper. God, it had been so long. She was so tired of being alone. Being afraid. Being cold.

Wayne was solid and warm and reassuring. He was all of those things she'd missed on this assignment. Hell, he was all of the things she missed the moment she'd pushed him out of her life.

For the first time since taking this under cover job, she was grateful for the chance to act like Ang Mo.

"Open your pants, Wayne." He barely heard her, she said it so quietly.

He shook his head. The coke must have been messing with him more than he realized it would. He'd imagined that, right? "What?"

"I need you," she kissed the words on his lips. "And Ang Mo can have anything she wants."

He cupped the nape of her neck and dragged her even closer, even harder of top of him. "Are you asking me to fuck you in this room full of addicts and drug lords?" His words sounded angry. His body vibrated between her thighs like it had never heard such a fantastic suggestion.

"Just a little," she pleaded softly. "No one will notice. Or if they do, they won't care. Please? I need you close."

His other hand was already pawing his zipper discreetly between them. "Only because I fucking need you so bad that I can't see straight," he grumbled darkly.

She nodded quickly. She levered up onto her knees above him, cradling his head between her hands. "Hurry."

He yanked himself free and pulled her down quickly. In one sharp move, he'd pulled her panties aside, positioned her, and sank her down completely.

Grace gasped as her tight, neglected body stretched wide around his granite cock. Rigsby jerked her forward, his forehead buried against her shoulder, before he let himself groan in unbelievable pleasure as her soft, pliant body yielded to his entry. He panted harshly against her, his raging emotions, drug-addled state and horny-as-hell hormones all screamed at him to start fucking upwards and not stop until he was a puddle of sated jelly on the floor.

Grace sealed her lips to his ear and exhaled raggedly. "Don't move," she guessed his thoughts. "Just stay. Stay with me."

His arms went around her waist and plastered her to him. A single hair couldn't have fit in between. "Yes," he rasped, searing her with burning, kisses along her collarbone. "I won't move. Just hold me. Hold me and don't let go, Grace."

She nodded against his hair, looking quickly around the room. Eric had left his chair, probably to attend business somewhere else. The rest of the couples were oblivious, many of them engaged in far more explicit activities than they were. Still Grace didn't let herself raise and sink onto him like she wanted. She didn't want them, any of them, to see their intimate moment. It belonged to the two of them. Not to Ang Mo and Jimmy. But Wayne and Grace. They were pressed together and purging the fear and distance that had built since their separation. She thought of all the nights she'd dreamt of holding him like this again and moaned, clenching him in ecstasy.

He moaned back and bucked slightly. "More. Squeeze me harder, Grace."

She squeezed him again, capturing his lips to keep him quiet as pleasure ricocheted in his groin. "Ang Mo," she chided with a small smile. "How did you find Ang Mo?"

"Didn't," he murmured, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Jane found you. He told me where to look." He bit his cheek as her muscles continued to flutter and release around him. It was torture not to stroke into that tight little channel like he wanted to, but it was also heaven just to let her whole body hug him over and over again, just like her many kisses felt like sunshine, each one making him warmer and warmer. "Who's Ang Mo?" he panted.

She leaned forward and bit his lobe playfully. Rigsby growled and she giggled. Using her teeth on him drove him absolutely nuts and she knew it. Now she was teasing him by scraping hers along the shell, punctuated with agonizing licks. "My nickname. It's the Chinese equivalent of _gringo_." She shivered on top of him, his presence - but stillness - in her body was making her crazy. She wished like hell that they were alone. There was so much she wanted to do, now that she'd broken her oath to stay away from him. She pulled back and chuckled shyly. "Literally, it means 'red hair'. They think it's lucky."

His rigid body flinched, fighting hard against his inertia. His smile was tight as his cock ached savagely at her internal massage. Slowly, he slipped two fingers between them, parting her folds and rubbing her gently. "Come for me, Gr-" he lost her name in the warning bite she gave his lips. He purred as her bite turned soft and her moans told him that she'd desperately missed his light touch. "I've needed you for five fucking months. Now I'm inside you again and I'm staying there until you come just for me." His steely arm banded around her back, forcing her harder onto his gentle fingers. His pupils, huge from coke and lust, shone bright in the dim of the room. "Show me how lucky I am, baby."

She crested and fell. Diving into the safety of his bare chest, she sobbed as quietly as her orgasm ripped her open and flooded her with euphoria. She gasped and panted, licking his throat eagerly as she rotated her hips in tiny strokes against him, her instincts winning over her discretion.

He tensed under her and gasped into her hair, both hands shooting to her hips and holding her in place as he shot hard into her delectable pussy. She put her hand over his mouth, letting him grunt loudly behind it, his teeth nipping her palm in pure reflex. The bite made her twitch, her thighs opening wider over him as he emptied himself inside her. She felt him spill hotly deep in her womb and she pressed yet another moan into his throat. She would never get over how amazing he was at this.

They came down slowly, their breath evening out until they were lounging placidly in the chair, Grace straddling his lap and snuggled tightly into his chest. At length, she spoke from her sanctuary against his neck. "I haven't touched anyone since you. Not even for the sting."

Rigsby, through his euphoric fog, felt heartened by her words, but not surprised. "I know," he said quietly, cocking his lips to her ear and kissing it languidly. "I haven't either."

She smiled against him. "I know."

"So what now?"

She pressed harder into him. "You need to pay me for the drugs. I tell Eric you came looking for a score. You go tell Lisbon and Narcotics what happened."

His arms tightened around her in disapproval. "I'm not leaving you here."

The woman in Grace made her weaken fractionally. It felt so good to hear those words. More than anything, she wanted to go along with them. She was almost - _almost_ - willing to let him carry her out of here, put her in his car, drive her to his place, lock her in his bedroom and make love to her until they couldn't remember their own names. She could sleep well for the first time in ages and wake up to the sun instead of the various cycles of the moon. She could roll onto his chest, warm and safe, and tell him everything. Her fears, her dreams, her secret assignment, her feelings. All of it. And he would listen. He was such a good listener. And when she was done, he'd wrap her up tight against him and whisper, "I love you, Grace."

She missed her name. Even the Narcotics team called her Leah and Ang Mo, just to keep her oriented. But Wayne would never. He'd weigh the practicality of calling her by her undercover names and simply decide that 'Grace' was the only name that truly fit her. She might bite him and chastise him for it, but deep down, she preferred it. Even needed it. The deep scratch of his voice suited her name perfectly. No one else managed to repeat that sound as alluringly as he did.

When Wayne called her Grace, she felt herself wilt.

She pulled upright in his lap and took a cleansing breath. Now was not the time to wilt. She let herself stare down into those blue eyes and slowly shake her head.

"You have to. You need to pay me, then go. Don't come back again, Wayne. You'll put me at risk. Go back to Narcotics and tell them what happened. I promise," she hesitated, then leaned down and kissed him lightly. "I promise to come back soon."

"No," he argued weakly, taking and giving kisses in turn. "Please, Grace, don't-"

She lifted to her knees again. Rigsby groaned as his penis slipped out of her. "Zip up," she whispered.

He reached down and quickly put his clothes back together, keeping his eyes on hers the whole time. When he finished, he shocked her by slipping his finger between her thighs and taking a quick swipe at her. She jolted at the electricity he produced in such a small move, stunned as he brought his finger, slick with her juice, up to his mouth and sucked hungrily. Their stared never broke. She exhaled raggedly, watching him lick himself clean.

His eyes were still unnaturally wide as he spoke low. "I'll go," he gruffed angrily. "But you _are _coming back, babe. And when you do, I'm going to pick up where I just left off."

His sexy threat hit her deep in her belly, already wanting him to fulfill it. She began to shiver all over again, but found the strength to merely nod as she slid from his lap.

Rigsby stood, his limbs now loose and confident from the explosion of drug and sex-induced dopamine in his bloodstream. He reached behind him and took out his wallet, thumbing out two one-hundred dollar bills. As he put his wallet back, his other arm looped her waist, dragging her close. Grace, as Ang Mo, let him. He brazenly slid the folded bills down her shoulder, down her chest, and slowly into the top of her dress. He nestled them neatly between her breasts until only their green tops peeked out. He kissed her hard, his hands coasting over her breasts and ass in a manner befitting his feelings and their cover.

When he broke away, he smiled serenely. "You were right. That made me _very _happy."


	49. Desperate

**A/N**: Hey peeps! I've been getting some increasingly desperate PMs about the _Late _series. I won't name names (Schnerbles), but they're going pretty ape over there, so I've taken a morning to write her some literary crack. Don't say I never gave ya nothin'. Word props also goes to the mystery reviewer (Schnerbles), who I think suggested this word ages ago. Remember, Grace is preggo, following _Late_, _Research_, _Yours_, _Livid _and _Implacable_.

**Desperate**

Her bedroom felt different as Grace pulled him inside. He'd been sleeping in this room for weeks now, but walking into it while kissing her for all she was worth made the room spin slightly for both of them. They'd fallen into her bed for carnal reasons in the past, but it had been so long ago. It almost felt like the first time. Rigsby moaned as his sweaty, salty hands coursed over her shoulders and down her back. It felt so good to touch her like he wanted to, like he'd spent every moment dreaming about since they'd parted. She was so damn soft and warm and sweet that his heart cracked wide with anguished adoration. And his baby was inside her, buried deep in his favorite place on earth.

He didn't blame the kid one bit. If he had a choice, he'd slip inside her body and never leave, too.

Grace mewled softly against his mouth and smug satisfaction tore through his blood as his tongue danced roughly with hers. A certainty filled him, one that his insecure mind had never experienced, assuring him that for once, there was someone in his life who belonged to him completely. Two people, in fact. One of which now shared his blood. Rigsby had never given much thought to fatherhood, but the fact that his soulmate was impregnated with the physical outcome of their love suddenly made him pray like hell she was having triplets. He wanted a dozen children by Grace. And as much as he wanted them to have her stunning hair, he prayed just as ardently that they had _his _eyes. Every time Grace looked at their children, Rigsby wanted her to see _him_ in their faces and know that every last one of them - herself included - was his stake. Little blue eyes smiling up at her would be a constant reminder that only _he_ was allowed to crawl into her bed and make another one with her.

His hands slipped lower and cupped her waist, his thumbs tracing possessively over her taut belly. He growled and moved his kiss down her throat, sucking harder than he usually had in the past, biting and nibbling a path to her collarbone. Grace whimpered and held his head to her, encouraging his wolfish claim. His hunched shoulders rippled angrily as he dipped low to continue his exploration. For the first time in weeks, her hormones were singing with pleasure as the promise of sex ricocheted through her blood and into her groin. His sudden aggressive attack wasn't helping matters. He had always been a powerful and intense lover, but he'd never been a domineering man. His eyes had always questioned softly if he was pleasing her. He'd always made sure he had her consent before he tried something new. He'd always made it very clear that while he might be physically superior, she would always have the power in their bed. And she had adored him for his considerate nature.

But now he was marking her up and purring like an animal and it was turning her on so much that her knees buckled against his onslaught.

She impatiently tugged at his t-shirt and he lifted the damp material up and over his head. Grace keened loudly and swooped in, fastening her lips to his nipple and sucking hard, moaning as clean sweat salted her tongue. Rigsby nearly howled in ecstasy, crushing her to him, his erection stabbing her lower abdomen. She licked him clean from his pectorals to his throat, lapping up his taste, feeding her pregnant body's screeching demand for masculinity.

"Baby," she crooned mindlessly, kissing his pulse point and feeling it hammer crazily under her touch. "Oh god, Wayne."

He was tugging at her clothes, pulling at the hem of her low-cut top and pawing at her jeans. "Grace," he rasped harshly. "Fuck...honey, we don't...I mean...is...is it safe?"

His concern for their baby made her hands shoot straight to his raging cock, working him eagerly through his gym shorts and pushing his brain out through his ears. His question melted into a litany of ragged swearing.

Grace sobbed at the aching void between her legs pounded with no mercy. She shoved his shorts down his legs and instantly dropped to her knees. His sizeable cock throbbed visibly at her position and Rigsby groaned in agony as she swallowed half of him without warning. His hands shot into her hair and cupped her head, his stance broadening, his hips bucking forward.

He'd never held her in place and actively fucked her mouth before. He would never have risked such disrespectful behavior. But she'd pushed a desperate, celibate man by offering him more than he could handle and she hummed provocatively with approval, moving in time to his shockingly wild thrusts.

"Oh _fuck_! I shouldn't...I..._can't_..." he moaned through clenched teeth, his pace not slowing one bit. "You're pregnant...I should...be...careful...shit, baby, _please_!"

Grace arched erotically, pushing her ass out for him to appraise as she continued to pleasure him orally. Grace no longer had control over herself. Her instincts were calling the shots, and they demanded that she display herself like the sexiest, most compliant female in the world and keep her mate focused only on her. Her breasts, already enlarging, were aching for his touch. Her skin crackled with electrified lust. Her core was throbbing so hotly that she was convinced if he didn't take care of her right the hell now, she'd die from deprivation. Her hands, which had been stroking his balls as she swallowed him, went to the back of his knees and pulled his thighs forward. Still sucking him madly, she rubbed his lower thighs against her clothed breasts, alleviating some of their swollen discomfort. Her nipples turned pebbly in an instant, eager as they connected to him, even through her shirt and bra. She moaned gratefully around him and took him deep in reward.

Rigsby choked on his praise. His eyes sparked angrily as her clothing blocked his view of her writhing, begging body. Still holding her head, his hands slipped forward and cupped her cheeks. In a mammoth display of will, he gently pulled out of her heavenly mouth. Looking down at her kneeling form, fierce love sparked alongside his assertiveness.

"Don't _make_ me fuck you, Grace," he gritted softly.

She shuddered at his tone, her mouth falling open at the promise she heard in it. He was asking her to slow down, not to push him into his animalistic frame of mind. He wanted his wits about him, he wanted to be aware, to be in control. If she kept it up, he'd lose his head and simply pummel her until he broke both of them in half. God knew he was capable. The image flared in her mind, his impressive body rocking hard and fast against hers, and damn it all if half of her didn't want exactly what he was warning her against.

But he didn't want it, not like that.

She looked up into his flinty expression, seeing the kind man who inhabited it, and smiled softly. Reaching into her own patience, she calmed her slamming heart and leaned forward to kiss the tip of his tight, angry penis.

"Okay," she replied quietly, standing up and meeting his eyes head-on.

He smiled tightly and tugged her top up her torso, careful to hold the tags, as they often caught in her hair. Her eyes fluttered. Such a simple gesture, and yet, when she felt his fingers close over those damn tags as he pulled her shirt over her head, she couldn't help the whimper that escaped her at his unstinting gentleness. She'd been a damn fool to throw this man away. She'd known it then, on some level, but the fact slammed into her skull as the impossibly aroused man in front of her remembered something as small as her long hair snagging in the dry cleaning instructions.

Trembling with desire, she gave him what he deserved. "I'm in love with you. I never stopped."

It caught him by surprise. His hands came up to clasp her shoulders, only to change their minds and trap her cheeks. She loved when he held her like that. She felt so very, _very _wanted.

Big, blue eyes gauged her carefully. A man so strong seemed oddly paired with such deep insecurities. She reached behind her back and undid the clasp of her rather plain cotton bra. She didn't mind that it wasn't sexier. She knew him well-well enough to know that when they were this close to the deed, he barely noticed her underwear, being too far gone to see anything except her bare skin. Underwear only hid what he was really looking for. She slid the straps off her shoulders, the garment falling at their feet. Stripped from the waist, she looked at him plaintively. "Wayne?"

His gaze dropped to her breasts, his expression one of amazement. His hands slithered down her throat and chest and cupped them reverently. Grace cooed happily, her head tipping back as sweet relief filled the ample swells. "I..." he grunted, molding them carefully, stunned as his touch seemed to soothe a soreness that he didn't know she had. "I...never..."

"Suck them. Please?" she interrupted softly.

"Jesus, baby," he hissed at her request and dipped his head quickly, taking a straining nipple into his mouth and sucking hard while his hand worked the flesh around it. His other hand attended to the neglected breast while she moaned above him like he'd never heard before. There was so much relief in it. His arms went around her back and yanked her up against him, allowing him to stand straighter as he switched to her other breast and hungrily nibbled her other nipple.

"Christ, your tits are gorgeous," he muttered hotly against them, noting their increase in size. "I could do this for hours."

"No," she rasped sharply, her hands on his shoulders and she leaned back into his hold and gave him unfettered access. "You can have two minutes. After that, if you're not inside me, I'm throwing you out."

He chuckled against her and buried his face between the swells. "_There's_ my brassy baby." He placed a languid kiss there before he pulled back enough to look at her. "Better get your pants off, then. I'm getting lonely being the only one naked."

She smiled as he lowered her to the ground. She unzipped and lowered her jeans and threw them on the pile of his clothes. Standing in her underwear, she saw the expression of his she knew and loved. Blind to her underwear, staring at all her exposed skin. Done with taking it slow, she quickly stripped out of them, as well.

His cock jumped in answer to her naked pussy. It knew where it belonged and it was furious that they were still separated. She smiled at his bothered appearance and gestured to the bed. "Shall we?"

He gave her a lopsided smile and sat down on the mattress, pulling her down until she was straddling his lap. Looking up at her happily, he tipped his lips up towards hers. "Show me you're in love with me," he asked shyly.

She smiled serenely and pressed her lips into his. He groaned contentedly as she opened her mouth and showed him what it meant to be a woman in love with him. She took her time relearning his taste. She writhed gently in his lap, rubbing her dripping cleft along the length of his erection. She murmured his name. She caressed every inch of his face, her adoration palpable in the soft sweep of her fingers.

Rigsby grunted under her attention, his body ready to burst. He managed to hold himself together by a thread. "How?..." he started, then closed his mouth. She backed off a little to let him speak. Her wordless encouragement made him try again. "How should we do this?" he asked, uncertainty tinging his question.

Grace's brow contracted. She didn't understand. He smiled tightly and tried again. Stroking her belly, he asked, "Should I wear a condom? Should you...you know...be on top?" he blushed and she grinned at his embarrassment. "What's best for you, Grace?"

"Nothing has to change, not right now, anyway," she assured him.

His concern didn't leave his eyes. "I need to be gentle with you."

She hummed and brushed her lips over his. "I like when you're gentle," she whispered, "and I like when you're rough."

He groaned and shook his head. "Don't wanna be rough. I want..." he paused, the words getting lost in his lust, "I want soft."

Grace kissed him a little deeper. "I like soft," she agreed.

And suddenly one strong arm encircled her back and she was lifted and lowered to the bed beneath them, her body stretching out under his. He settled between her legs, her thighs instinctively spreading wide. The questions were back in the blue eyes above her. She arched up into his long frame and nodded as she kissed him. "It's okay," she told him. "This is good. Better than good."

She reached between them and grasped him firmly. He arched and swore loudly as she worked him in her warm hands. "No condom," she said. "You won't hurt anything."

Feeling his tension in every rippling muscle, she positioned him at her entrance with one hand and guided his hips with the other. In one slow, fluid stroke, he filled her completely.

"Fuck!" Rigsby choked harshly.

"Oh, god," Grace moaned as she fell back against the pillow, almost going limp at the pleasure exploding in her tight channel.

Rigsby, tense as a high wire, kept good on his word. He let her adjust to him. He kept his weight in his arms. And just when she was ready to scream with unquenched desire, he started to move.

Slowly, oh-so-damn slowly, he pulled out of her. The hot, pulsing suction of her body pulled at him, trying to keep his dick locked in as he retreated. Blinded by a pleasure he'd tried like hell to forget during the months without her, he thrust back in at the same gentle speed. It was a home unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

The woman beneath him sobbed softly and his glazed eyes snapped to hers. "I'm in love with you," he said in a strangled voice. Pumping carefully into the girl he loved and the cradle of his unborn child, he couldn't hold back a single second longer. "I love you more now than I ever thought possible." Grace gripped his shoulders, squeezing him, urging him to continue. His words, his thrusts. Everything.

"Yes," she gasped breathlessly.

"You," he moaned hotly, his pace increasing fractionally. "Fuck, I missed you. I needed you. Every damn day, I needed you."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, and meant it. "I'm so sorry, Wayne. I needed you, too. I never should have let you go. Never."

"You didn't," he rasped. Her legs wrapped high around his waist and he lost a few brain cells as he slipped deeper. "You never lost me. Grace, you own me. You own me like a damned dog."

She made a shushing sound to stop him, pulling him closer, accepting more of his weight. He was breaking her heart with his loyalty. She didn't deserve it. The mindless pleasure he was giving her made her tongue loosen considerably.

"I'm yours," she kissed the words to his lips. Profanity drove him crazy. So did honesty. She arranged her words accordingly, wanting to make him wild with happiness. "I only love you. I only fuck you. Any babies I have will be yours, Wayne." She gasped and bit his throat as he hit a sweet spot inside her. She dragged his hand to her lower belly and flattened his palm against it. "He'll love you too. He'll call you daddy and love you so much that his little heart will explode with it. And he'll be a good man. Just like you."

Grace cried out, her orgasm triggered by her scenario and Wayne's earth-shattering presence deep inside her. She clutched him and wailed loudly, pulling him deeper, begging him to join her.

Rigsby could only take so much. He rammed deep and roared, the cascade of images she'd dumped into his head were swirling at a dizzying speed, making him lightheaded. She loved him. Their baby loved him. And she wanted their little one to be _just _like him.

He came hard in her welcoming body, heedless of his earlier fears about ejaculation. Light exploded behind his eyes and left dancing black dots in their wake. He croaked her name, gasping and panting as he emptied himself dry amid her breathless moans of ecstasy. His orgasm hit him so hard that his elbows were buckling under the strain of his trembling weight. Suddenly, he was too heavy for himself.

But he wouldn't lower down to her.

"Grace?" he questioned softly, eyes still huge and watering from his climax. "Can you take me?"

Heavy-lidded, her eyes found his and she smiled. "Luckily, I have help." She gestured to her tummy before wrapping her arms around him, letting him settle his large body into hers. She sighed in contentment as his warm weight pressed her firmly into the bed. No matter how shattering their sex always was, this was undoubtedly one of her favorite parts -being trapped willingly under the protective shield of his upper body. Her arms crossed behind his neck, her fingers curly idly into his dark hair and teasing softly.

"Hmmmm," he mumbled appreciatively. "Damn, I've missed you."

She was too tired to feel guilty. She was too tired to do anything but agree. "Missed you more," she murmured distractedly.

He snorted, but didn't argue further. Instead, he merely lifted his head to gaze at her. "Hey. You have my baby," he said with a mixture of teasing and awe.

She snorted in reply, her fingers still caressing his scalp. "Yeah, well. _You_ put it in there." There was a defensive pout in her tone that made him smile.

"I'm a daddy," he rasped softly.

She nodded. "You're a daddy."

He lowered himself enough to kiss her languidly. "You're _both_ my babies," he said dreamily.

She didn't have the heart to tease him, going instead with the truth. "Yours," she returned his kisses. "No matter what."


	50. Trust

**A/N**: I have zero idea where this came from, but I'm super excited because this idea is one of many and now that I've finished a particularly big piece of real-life work, I can get back to writing more smut. Huzzah! The peasants rejoice! Grace's POV.

**Trust**

There are certain things I miss in particular.

I wondered for many, _many_ months if Wayne was a trusting man. In general, I mean. Not to suggest that I thought he was a suspicious person, just that he didn't seem very open. He was obedient to authority. He was civil to strangers. He was patient with witnesses. He was restrained (usually) with suspects. The only time he got even remotely cagey was when...well. When he was jealous. And he was quiet. Above all else, he was quiet.

In the end, I decided that - despite his kind, guileless ways - no, he was not a trusting man.

I don't know what it was that made him trust _me_.

There was a certain way he got when he was with me. I don't know how to explain it. He'd fall into my bed on his back. His eyes would stay wide, blinking innocently. His arms would unceremoniously fall open on either side of him, palms up. At work, I noticed that he usually crossed them. But in my room, he'd lay quietly, looking up at me, like he was waiting hopefully for me to join him, but not fully _expecting_ me to. My knee would tent the mattress and he's smile in anticipation. His insecurity broke my heart and I kissed a six-foot journey from his ankle to his lips. His eyes sparked with each press of my lips. I was shocking him. Electrically. Metaphorically. In all the time we were together, my touch always surprised him.

It was like he trusted me, but he didn't trust his own luck.

I hate my own vanity. I know - I'm 100% certain - that he's never wanted anything more than he wants me. He's never been happier than when he had me. I blew his mind. I blew his body. Those big eyes that watched the world with such silent scrutiny glazed over completely when I did something a simple as rub the back of his hand. It may have been wrong of me, but I often performed acts on him that I'd never have even considered with other men, just to watch his stunned expression. I couldn't help myself. I can only assume it's what men feel at the idea of deflowering a virgin. His reaction to me was one of a kind. Never once did his eyes slant with smugness when I sucked on his testicles. Never once did he chuckle when I kissed his palms with as much reverence as I would the creator of the universe. It drove him mad when I pulled his ring finger into my mouth and laved it adoringly with my tongue, closing my teeth behind the thick silver band he wore and dragging it off him in a hard, wet suck. The ring filled my mouth with a metallic tang as I wiggled my brow at him playfully and told him that if he wanted it back, he'd have to come get it.

He'd look at my for a split second and I _knew_. He wanted me to keep it. He wanted to slide it over my thumb or put on a chain around my throat. He wanted that diamond that he hadn't had the heart to steal for me so that he could set it on that ring and give it to me while on his knees. He wanted it out there, marking me as his for all to see.

I saw it clearly in his eyes.

Then he'd grin, launch forward, and plumb my mouth with his tongue, scooping out his ring and crowing at its capture. He'd slide that band back onto his finger, now wet with our saliva, and smilingly confess that I made him so hot he couldn't stand it. Wanting another one of his wondrous expressions, I'd ask him if there was anything else he wanted sucked while I was at it.

Once again, he gave me the stare of a man who'd been told he'd won the lottery. Incredulous joy. No one shows it like Wayne.

Am I wrong to miss it? Am I selfish for wanting him so badly? All of the trust he foolishly gave me and the love he offered wholeheartedly? Am I a depraved addict for craving it at 3am? Or every night when I get home? Or waking up alone between blue sheets he once said made my skin look impossibly beautiful?

I never told him, but I stole from him once. He left one of his red ties at my house one night. After our breakup, I didn't put it in the box of his things that he silently came to collect the next day. That tie was special. One night, after he drugged me with more of his aching vulnerability, I begged him to tie my hands before he made love to me. I _needed_ him to. The trust issue felt so uneven between us that I was desperate to level the field somehow. I couldn't mimic his expressions, so I gave him my hands. My control. With uncertain eyes, he knotted my hands with his tie, secured them to my headboard, and fucked me raw as I begged for more. Words can't express how much relief I felt that, as much as he was willing to give me, he was also willing to take.

Every few nights, I coil my hands tight into that tie as I lay naked in bed. Willingly bound, it's the only way I can sleep.


	51. Blast

**A/N**: What we need on the show is a good old fashioned dangerous circumstance that makes our ship come to their senses. That, and I realized that I totes have a bite reflex when I get around my cute boy's throat. Anyone else get bitey around certain anatomy? Holla if you do!

**Blast**

It all happened so fast.

They'd been paired up. Again. Grace was beginning to wonder if Lisbon found it amusing. The house was empty. Rigsby crept in first, his gun drawn and lowered as he entered the front door. He signaled for Grace to stay back. From the middle of the dark living room, he turned at the sound of her footsteps and held up his hand. _Stay_, he ordered silently, his eyes slanting with the reprimand of a superior agent. Grace huffed and titled her chin in defiance, but stayed in the door frame. He always _did_ that now. He never let her go first and never let her advance until he was positive there was no immediate danger. She frowned deeply at his order, but obeyed nonetheless. She supposed he never got over her being shot in that ghetto apartment block, because now when they were sent out together, he deliberately took point and stayed there, shielding her from possible harm.

She tapped her foot softly at him. _Let me come in and do my job_, she silently ordered back.

Gun lowered, he gave her a _one second_ finger before heading over to a box on the dining table. The one that their anonymous caller said would be waiting for them. They weren't told what to expect, so Rigsby was careful not to touch it. Leaning over to peek into its open flaps, he suddenly went rigid. Grace watched as his back went stiff and his muscles froze. Her own hackles rose in response to his posture. Whatever it was, it was bad.

"_Graace_."

Her name slithered out of his clenched teeth and she froze up in fear. The moaning agony in his single word told her that he wasn't calling for her. He was terrified for her. He was mourning her, as surely as if he'd discovered her still-beating heart on that box.

"Run," he hissed at her, his head still turned away, his gaze glued to the box in front of him. She didn't move an inch and he turned in fury at her stillness. "Run!"

And suddenly he was a blur of motion. Grace barely saw him as he careened towards her, not slowing as he tackled her by the waist and threw them over the patio and across the three steps to the pavement. The air in her lungs whooshed out loudly as her body landed hard between the unforgiving asphalt and his weight.

Suddenly a deafening blast filled her ears. Light and heat exploded all around them as a bomb detonated and blew the house straight to hell. Rigsby roared in pain as wooden shrapnel sliced his calves and lower back, ripping through his suit like butter. Grace squeezed her eyes shut and gave a throaty scream as boiling heat poured over them, stealing their oxygen and leaving them gasping for air, only to inhale more heat, causing them to cough.

Grace fisted her hands into his jacket lapels and buried her face in his collar. She couldn't her own cries as a secondary blast knocked more pieces of the house on and around them. She mindlessly pressed her lips into his shirt and dragged a breath through the filter of the material. Her mouth and nose filled with cleaner air, tinted by the smell of his laundry detergent and aftershave. Smoke pricked her eyes and her tears soaked the light blue fabric underneath them. Greedily she lifted the lapel in her hand and burrowed deeper into his shirt and under his jacket, wanting more clean breaths that smelled like him.

"Oh, my god," she whimpered into him. Her whole body was trembling. She was positive the only reason she wasn't shaking apart was his body pinning her down and absorbing her tremors.

"Are you okay?"

She felt his question in his chest as much as she heard it. "No," she mewled against him, clutching him closer. "No, I'm freaking not okay."

"I'm hurt," he muttered rather clinically. "Shit, it stings like a bitch."

"But it's not bad?" she asked from under his jacket. The blasts had subsided and the house burned merrily behind them, but she still didn't want to leave the dark safety of his clothes.

She felt him inhale before shakily expelling it. He took a quick stock before she felt him shake his head. "No, it's not bad."

She peeked out from his coat. Only his throat was visible from her trapped position underneath him. He was craning his head this way and that, taking in the damage, looking around for help and/or the responsible party. She murmured his name without hearing herself. Without looking down, his fingers filtered into her hair and pet it gently. "S'okay, baby," he whispered distractedly.

His closeness and scent were only furthering her mindless need for his overwhelming presence. After so many months of careful distance between them, he was on top of her, pressing hotly against every inch. Once again, he hadn't been thinking before he acted. And once again, his mindlessness led him straight to her. She hadn't been ready. She hadn't prepared herself for the fantastic memories to flood her as he clothed her like human Kevlar and thought of nothing else except her safety. It smacked her like a bat. She whimpered and his fingers plunged deeper into her mane until he was caressing her nape. Still checking their surroundings, he soothed her. "I'm sorry," he twisted his head back to watch the flames lick their way up the exposed walls. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

She was dismayed when the cords in his neck flexed starkly under his skin as he looked behind them. It made her heart leap, beating wildly at his unintentional display of masculine strength. Panic rose swiftly in her chest as his jaw line loomed dangerously close to her mouth. Moaning softly, she gave into the uncontrollable bite reflex she'd always had for it. Leaning forward one tiny inch, she nipped him gently.

Rigsby gasped loudly, letting it slide into a dark, longing groan.

His eyes slammed shut and his body went as hard as a rail spike. He was already operating on adrenaline, now Grace had gone and given him an overdose. He'd forgotten. Sweet Christ in heaven, how could he have forgotten that she liked biting him there?

"_Fuck_," he hissed, dropping his head lower, giving her teeth better anchorage. She sank them deeper into his flesh, suddenly feeling furiously territorial. When he kissed his girlfriend tonight after work, she wanted her to see the perfect oval of her bite radius just under his ear. She wanted Wayne to stutter over some bad lie about a suspect going mad dog on him. She wanted that girl to squint suspiciously at him, wondering if he'd be stupid enough to cheat on her in the middle of a work day and come home sporting a hickey as proof.

Eventually, she'd believe him. He hadn't done anything wrong, after all.

But Grace wanted this one thing, this tiny wrench thrown into their happy relationship, so she took her pleasure as her lips kissed the skin next to her nibbling teeth. "Wayne."

"Stop," he begged, even as he craned his head back and bared his throat to her. "Grace, please."

"No," she cooed against him, soothing over her mark with her tongue. "Mine." Liquid fear and instinct pulsed through her body. All other daily considerations have vanished and left her with only those two words.

Rigsby growled above her, surrounding her with its feral, inviting vibrations. "I know," he rasped. "But you're not _mine_."

She let her head fall back to the ground as she looked up at him. His expression was one of terror, suppressed lust, and sad truth. She shook her head angrily. "This was the only way," she shook him gently by the lapels. "The only way I could keep you."

"It's not enough." His blue eyes darkened with angry desire. She met him with the same mirrored in her eyes. "It's better than losing you to San Fran. Better than losing you period."

He cocked his head at her, his body grinding her of its own volition. She arched into it and moaned with consent. "Not enough," he reiterated roughly.

Grace couldn't tell where the blistering heat was coming from anymore. Not caring, she lifted up and latched her lips to his throat again, a feminine growl escaping her as he threw his head back and let her. "Still. Mine."


	52. Provoked

**A/N**: I'm still sitting here with my fingers on in ears going "LA LA LA LA LA!" every time the show comes on and insists that Grace and Rigs are broken up. Nope. Sorry. Didn't happen. They're still getting it on every other hour. LA LA LA LA! Anywho, to prove it, here is another needlessly smutty installment of _Tango_. Imagine them even younger, hotter and with zero impediments to their relationship. Oooooh, yeah.

**Provoked**

Grace cried out in wrung-out ecstasy as she crested for the third time.

"_Pleeeease_," she moaned hotly to the man plowing her mercilessly from behind. She didn't know if she was begging him to stop or to keep fucking her forever. Her arms trembled violently under the strain. She was exhausted and awash with so much satisfaction that she was positive she was going to black out and he'd have to reach the finish line alone.

He drove himself deep until he couldn't fit another millimeter of himself inside her and stilled, pumping against her without withdrawing. "Bad girl," Rigsby hissed adoringly at her.

Still shivering, Grace no longer denied it, as she had been all day since the incident. "Yes," she whispered, nodding her head at the mattress.

She could _feel _his smirk as he resumed a more languid, cocksure pace. Damn him. "Why are you bad, Grace?"

Her pussy continued to stretch and throb around his stubborn hard-on that refused to ejaculate and leave her in peace. Panting, sweating, she repeated his accusation, owning up to it at last. "I provoked you."

Large, deft fingers crept from their steely grip on her ass around to her clit. They assaulted her, running talented circles around her tiny bud, causing sparks to fly through her nerves. She sobbed and buckled under the pleasure. "Wayne, _please._"

But he merely chuckled and continued his firm, hard strokes into her tight, quivering channel. Plead as she might, there was no way in hell he was ending this. He'd been thinking about punishing her all day, ever since she'd walked into the beginner's course he occasionally stepped in to teach, sat in the front row in a pathetic excuse for a skirt, and kept cucumber cool as she splayed her legs just enough for him to see that she wasn't wearing panties. For one solid hour, he'd been forced to keep his head together and talk about the broader aspects of fieldwork to first years while his beautiful little angel sat ten feet away and cockteased the shit out of him. Oh, and she'd been so indifferent about it, too. Cruel little minx. She kept her legs crossed most of the time, sitting demurely and listening very respectfully to a lecture that she'd already taken the semester before, but as the talk wore on, she slowly uncrossed them, edging her knees further and further apart until she was blinding him with her gorgeous little pussy that peeked invitingly at him in a room of a hundred people. But her face remained oblivious, almost daring him to make a scene and attack her right there in her chair.

He snorted. He knew most of her classmates thought she was frosty. Beautiful as she was, others took that to mean that she was bitchy instead of shy.

If only they knew.

Rigsby looked down at the glistening, wanton woman on the business end of his cock and roared with pride. She wasn't frosty. He drove hard against her perfect ass again and basked in her searing cries. She was lava itself.

He leaned forward, knuckling the mattress next to her hands, changing his angle as his chest curled lovingly around her slender back. She whimpered as he shifted all around her, tucking her smaller frame into his. His smile went soft. She couldn't hide how much she loved being surrounded by him and it drove him abso-fuckin-lutely crazy. She was so strong. Impervious to everyone's ridiculous and unfounded opinions about her girly inability to take care of business. Steel filled her gaze when she looked at them, instantly bulletproof, as she went about her day. But for him? He banded his arm around her taut belly, cupping a breast as he continued to slide in and out of her. She cooed his name in naked adoration. For him, she was as sweet and yielding as honey.

"Why did you provoke me?" he whispered the question into her vivid hair. He could feel that she was already weak from his time-intense fuckathon that he'd inflicted on her. Her first orgasm has been torn out of her with his tongue the minute she'd stepped into his living room. Her second had crashed into her when he'd pinned her to the floor under him, pile driving between her tight folds until she screamed. Her third had just barely subsided and he was already working her towards her fourth. But he was not a pitiless man. His arm tightened around her, accepting much of her weight. She gave it to him gratefully, crooning insensibly and leaning back gently into his thrusts. It had taken him awhile to trust himself while on top of and behind her, but she had been so trusting in their explorations and today? She'd gone and snapped his control. So he'd fucked her like an animal and trusted her to guide him if he pushed too hard.

"Tell me, sweet baby," he prodded smilingly. No pretending he'd fucked her speechless already, although that was definitely on the menu.

"I..." she began haltingly. "I...provoked you..."

"Yeeees?" he said sweetly, squeezing the supple breast filling his hand. Christ, sometimes it still blew his mind that the woman he loved happened to be such a stunning piece of ass, pardon his French.

She exhaled shakily as her pussy fluttered helplessly around his relentless cock. "...because you make me feel..." she broke off and gasped as he tensed around her. His body was responding to the simple fact that he made her feel _anything_. He swore loudly, a prisoner of his own reaction.

"Feel what?" he rasped raggedly, fighting off his own release. It was hard enough, knowing that she was able to come so easily when he took her like this. It was a first for him. He clutched her tighter, his blind worship of her evident in every thump of his manic heartbeat against her back.

Her knees were ready to give out under her weight. Her whisper barely disturbed the air around her lips. "Safe. You're so safe, Wayne."

Rigsby snapped back into a kneeling position behind her and roared. His angel keened desperately as she achieved her fourth leap over the precipice while he bucked and emptied his aching balls into her quaking depths.

Gasping and shaking, he growled harshly at her intoxicating admission that the woman who didn't need anyone, who refused to submit to _anyone_, was his to protect. She didn't just her budding sexuality to him, she trusted him with everything. Her weaknesses. Her femininity. Her guilts and perceived faults. Everything that she hid from the world, fearing its censure, she gave him. Entrusted to him. She felt _safe_.

"Jesus Christ, Grace," he muttered, awed. His arm still curled tightly around her middle, he held her to him and he moved to his side, her little spoon to his big spoon. Once there, he wrapped his other arm under her neck and pulled her back against him by her shoulders. Her damp hair swirled around his face and he inhaled deeply, taking a hit of her delectable scent. Still shuddering with release, he didn't hear himself whisper to her. "I prayed for you."

Shaking in his arms, Grace didn't seem able to respond. She merely tucked herself tighter into the crook of his hips, his dick still snuggled deep inside her, refusing to leave. Her hands rested on each of his arms, clutching him. Their mixed sweat dried quickly on their rapidly cooling bodies. Sleep seemed inevitable.

Because of this, he hadn't really expected her answer.

"I never even dreamed you were possible."


	53. Flawed

**A/N**: Because I'm getting so darn sick of how supposedly awesome Eric Effing Winter is. You know what's awesome? _Not_ coming off like a douche bag. You know who does that perfectly? Rigsby. Because he's not some ninja Bruce Wayne wannabe. I don't care how square your magnificently chiseled jaw is. You suck, O'Laughlin!

**Flawed**

The argument is Lisbon's office started out so quietly that the bullpen wasn't fully aware of it until there was suddenly a knock-down, drag-out shouting match happening in that tiny glass cubicle. Jane became aware of it first, sliding his head along the sofa's armrest, craning back to watch from his indolent perch. Cho noticed second, his ears perking at the increase in volume, but didn't turn around. It had been awhile, but this argument had happened before. His eyes slanted fractionally. It could only mean one thing. His braced his already toughened heart, knowing that this fight was about their next case. More specifically, this fight illuminated what _kind_ of case it was. Cho grimaced. Fuck, he hated these cases. He lowered his head and took a swandive into his paperwork. This fight always ended the same way. He didn't want to watch.

Grace was the last to tune into the voices getting louder and louder until Lisbon's voice pierced her concentration and made her look up from her computer in surprise.

"I'm getting sick and tired of this, Wanye! I'm too young to be your damn mom, so quit acting like a sullen brat. I said you're out, so you're out!"

"You can't just sideline me every time we get one like this, boss! You're not the only one sick and tired of making your point!"

"My points override your points, Agent. This isn't up for debate and you know it. I say when you're ready to work on them, and today isn't that day!"

"Goddammit, boss!"

"_Enough_!"

The thwack of her door opening sent eavesdroppers scattering as Lisbon flung it wide and jammed her finger into the bullpen. "Get out. Talk a walk. Clear your head. When you come back, I want you on board with my decision and I don't want to hear another word. You got me?"

Grace peeked over the top of her monitor, hiding all but her eyes, as she watched Wayne glare at their pint-sized leader with simmering indignation as he sat in one of her chairs. Without taking his eyes off her, he stood up and stalked out.

"Fine," he hissed so quietly that were it not for the silence of the usually bustling pen, no one would have heard it. He stormed off to the elevators, his furious expression not seeing the gawking people around him. He threw himself in once the metal doors slid open, punching the button for the lobby and swearing angrily as they slid closed again.

Grace stared after him, appalled.

She turned to Cho as he continued to study his desk like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

"What was that all about?" she whispered over the aisle.

Cho didn't look up. "Kids," he answered stoically. "Our next case is a dead kid."

Grace inhaled sharply, her gaze snapping back to the elevators before coming back to Cho. "How do you know that? And why is Rigsby off the case?"

He shrugged, still not looking up. "Lisbon always takes him off when it's an abuse case. This kid must have been beaten to death. She never trusts him with cases like that."

"Oh, dear God." Grace's eyes were wide as she leaned closer to him. "Why not?"

At her question, Cho finally raised his head. His stony expression gauged her impassively, as if trying to decide what she knew. Jane, however, felt no discomfort in supplying an answer.

"You can't expect a former abuse case to act rationally in an abused child's murder investigation, now can you, Grace?" he smiled with no humor.

Grace gasped and Cho tossed his pencil down in annoyance. "Can it, Jane," he said tersely. "It's not our business."

"Former abuse case?" Grace's voice trembled slightly.

Heedless of Cho, Jane nodded. "It's in his file. So are his complete medical records. Late night ER visits, broken bones, chronic black eyes, multiple lacer-"

"I said shut up, man," Cho cut him off forcefully. "Don't drag his personal shit out like this."

"Just sayin'" Jane shrugged indifferently before turning to Grace. "I'm surprised you didn't know already. I'm sure he's mentioned something of his rather ugly past to you of all people."

"Jane," Cho warned darkly. "I'm not gonna say it again."

Jane threw his hands up. "Fine."

But Grace was still blinking at the two them in utter shock. She lowered her eyes to her desk, her mind reeling, before she eyed Cho. "But," she began softly, "none of us had great childhoods. Lisbon and you had problems with your dads. Jane," she looked at the man himself and shook her head slightly. "I don't know exactly, but it was bad. I can tell." She looked back at her tough friend. "Why Wayne? Why take him off every single abuse case before they even start?"

Cho pursed his lips, conflicted. "Daddy issues and beatings aren't the same thing," he said finally. "And Rigsby..." he paused, disliking the disloyal taste that filled his mouth. "Rigsby worked one of these before. When he found the dad responsible for the kid's death, he nearly beat him into a coma. He just lost it. Lisbon won't risk him again. Not until she's sure he'll keep his shit together and not punch every suspect we haul in."

Jane watched Grace with a fascinated air as she processed. She threw him a glance and sighed sadly. "I didn't know," she answered his morbid curiosity. "I knew he was an emancipated minor. I knew he hated his parents, but," she put her hands in her lap and stared at them. "I didn't know."

The three sat in silence for a moment until a temp poked his head about the glass partition. "Van Pelt? O'Laughlin's on Line Four."

Grace looked up quickly. "Thanks. Um," she looked at her phone. "Actually, can you take a message? We're just about to have a meeting."

"Sure," the guy said, disappearing.

Grace continued to stare at her hands as Jane tsked her loudly. "Never a good idea to ignore phone calls from the boyfriend," he chided rather meanly. "Especially now that you have one free of so much emotional baggage. Surely Craig would be happy to cheer you up if you let-"

"Cho's right, Jane," Grace clipped icily as she got up and walked away angrily. "Shut up."

She didn't know if Lisbon was about to call them in to discuss the case in question, but right now she didn't really care. She had her cell phone on her if they needed her. She took the stairs to the basement, her heels clicking loudly over the cement steps and she descended. She went straight to the employee stacks and walked through the rows, almost through the entire alphabet, until she came to R. She skimmed until she found the box that contained Rigsby's name and pulled it down, no longer feeling that this was a gross violation of her team's privacy. That had been her initial reason for never reading anyone's personal file. Cho and Jane might have done so for job or control-related reasons, but at the time, she'd felt it was only a selfish curiosity that would lead someone to poke into a friend's private life.

That was a long time ago.

She thumbed through Rafferty, Rains, Rathborn, Reese, Reisler and Rhioletti before reaching his name. She pulled his file and opened it on a nearby carol, flipping through his application and employment record until she got to his personal stuff.

She read quickly at first. Date of birth. Place of birth. Parents' names. Fitness reports (she smiled at his high scores). Mental acuity tests. Vision tests. Hearing tests. All above average and devoid of problems. She flipped the page and found what she'd been looking for.

**Notable Medical History - Rigsby, Wayne B.**

_Previous Injuries_

_Brakes or Fractures: Right tibia (healed), left scapula (healed), left ulna (healed)_  
_Shatters: Left zygomatic bone (healed, eyesight unaffected)_  
_Concussions: 12/10/86 (healed), 08/04/89 (healed)_  
_Replacement Prostheses: Cartilaginous joint in right ankle (stomped), right lateral bicuspid (knocked out)_

_Notes: Subject freely admits to being the victim of violent and repeated abuse during the whole of his childhood by close family members, namely his father. Subject has voluntarily submitted to three separate psychological evaluations and has agreed to weekly therapy sessions with a CBI psychiatrist for the first year of duty. Bi-yearly sessions will follow. All superiors are to be made aware of his pre-existing injuries and copies of his psychiatric session notes._

Her gaze tapered along the last sentence before glazing over, not reading further. The file was suddenly a dry husk in her hands, lifeless.

Instead, she pictured the living, breathing body it was describing. Brakes. Fractures. Shatters. Concussions. She didn't know how to reconcile those words to the smooth, unbroken texture of the man she'd felt under her hands. There had been no signs. No signs at all. The man she knew so viscerally was as healthy as a horse and half as strong. None of these bizarre-sounding descriptions made any sense.

She flipped the next page and looked at the Xerox of a skeleton sketch, covered in messy writing and arrows, indicating each affliction. There were lots of them. Some pointed to his legs. One or two to his arms. Too many pointed to his head. A half-smile/half sneer marred her lips. Her baby and his blessed, thick skull. Thank God he hadn't been born a weaker man or these arrows would have illustrated crushed bone instead of dented.

She read each date, catalogging his hurts and how old he was when he got them. It took longer than it should have.

She wanted to know more, but shut the file nonetheless. She had enough. And what she had hadn't come from the man himself, so it was already too much. Shaking slightly, she picked it up and returned it to its proper place in that dusty box before shelving it and walking back slowly towards A. She cleared the aisles and took the elevator to the lobby, her legs leading the way.

Her phone rang as she stepped outside and she answered it without looking. "Van Pelt."

"Hey, babe. I was thinking Vietnamese tonight. Pick you up at the usual time?"

Craig's voice caught her off guard. She slowed her pace. "Umm...hi. Yeah, uh. That's fine. Guess I'll see you then."

"Great," he replied brightly. "I know an awesome place. See you soon."

He hung up before she could say goodbye. She pulled her phone back and looked at it. She immediately recalled the way Wayne used to end a call. Unless he was surrounded by people, he'd tell her he loved her. Even when he was, he said goodbye and waited to hear it back. Strange, how the little things stick in your mind. Not that she wanted Craig to say he loved her. It was too soon for that. Too a lot of things for that. But the fact that he didn't...

Didn't... Wasn't...

Hmmm.

Grace derailed that train of thought. It didn't matter if Craig was economical with his conversations. He'd gladly talk about anything she liked, if she asked. Nor did it matter _how_ he talked. Hellos, goodbyes and love yous weren't required all the time.

She put her phone in her pocket and crossed the street. She passed the few other buildings adjacent to the CBI and stepped into the park. She'd only been here once before, but it was easy enough to find.

He was there, just like she figured, sitting in the exact same spot, staring off at nothing while children played on the jungle gym in front of him.

Jane was right. When Rigsby felt threatened or in need of comfort, he went to the park. A sudden wave of unwanted knowledge rose up inside her, reminding her that when he'd been with her, his comfort had been hers to give whenever he needed it. It had usually been in the form him padding up behind her and without a word, hugging her tightly, his arms around her waist, his front fused against her back. His face would sink in her hair and she'd feel him inhale deeply, pulling the scent of her shampoo all the way down to his toes. She'd feel something leave him, a tenseness that she hadn't even noticed, and he'd become heavier against her, peace making him more solid. By standing still and covering his hands with hers, she salved his soul.

She'd dispensed those hugs gladly. They seemed like such a little thing to her, but they made all the difference in the world to him. In those months, she'd never seem him slip away to be by himself like he was now. He'd come to _her_.

She took a steadying breath and walked over to his bench, sitting near the opposite edge, facing the children as they shrieked and pinwheeled before them.

"Hey," she greeted softly.

He grunted, his chin lifting slightly. His eyes didn't lose their glassiness as he continued to stare far away.

Grace looked at the ground, at a loss for what to say. There was an embargo on every topic. His childhood. Lisbon's ballout. His dramatic exit. The upcoming case. And of course, the pre-existing elephant of their uncertain relationship. She didn't have any idea what words she could offer that would help him. She looked up at him, his impressive profile looking especially vulnerable and sad.

She scooted closer. Without thinking, she offered what she knew had helped in the past. She didn't even look at him as she slid her arm passed his, under his coat, and around his back until she cupped the other side of his ribcage. Her fingers gripped the soft fabric of his shirt, locking tight. She rested her forehead against his shoulder, holding herself to him firmly. Dark blue filled her vision, his sport jacket blocking everything else.

He stiffened, but didn't pull away.

She expected him to say something, to tell her that he was fine and just leave him alone for awhile. He must have been hurting a great deal because he put his arm around her and pulled her into his side. Having better access, she nestled her cheek over his heart, listening to it beat steadily underneath the layers of dense tissue.

She wanted to say she was sorry, but knew he'd misinterpret it. He didn't want pity and wouldn't understand that she wasn't offering any. Luckily, he didn't need words at all. Her warm, pliant body was medicating him, dulling the pain as only she knew how. He turned towards her and brought his other arm around her, completing his hold on her.

She pulled back a bit a looked him in the eyes, smiling weakly. "Hi."

His smile was even weaker. "Hi."

Gently, she reached up and brushed the delicate curve of his outer eye socket.

_Shattered: Left zygomatic bone (healed, eyesight unaffected)._

His skin was so soft there. She rimmed it softly, from just under his lashes to the end of his dark brow. Such a thin, graceful bone. So very...breakable.

He watched her as she touched him. He saw the indignation flash briefly in her eyes as she explored a decades-old injury. And he knew.

His hand trapped hers at his temple. Without breaking eye contact, he shook his head. "Don't look for it."

She bit her lip. "This isn't charity, Wayne."

"No, but it's sadness. I never wanted you to be sad when you looked at me."

She nibbled her lip harder, unaware of how bad he wanted to stop her nibbling with kisses. "If it were me, wouldn't you want to know?"

He went hard in an instant, his muscles going rigid at the thought. His gaze went flinty, frost filling his blue eyes. He lowered his head like an attack dog and tightened his hold. "It's not you. It'll never be you, so help me God."

His protectiveness only served to relax her further into his arms. Some things never change. "Couldn't we just look at it as _sharing _your sadness? You trusting me to share it with you?"

His weak smile returned. "Well. I guess it's academic now, huh?"

Grace shook her head, her patented cute pout in place. "I thought we were going to try to be friends. Don't friends help each other? Comfort each other?"

Still smiling softly, he gently traced the arch of_ her _temple. The sculpted, feminine arch, so much more fragile than his own, filled him with awe as his thick index finger followed its curvature. "We _are_ trying. But this..." he paused, uncertain, "...The way I feel...What I want from you. It's inappropriate now."

Grace didn't respond. She couldn't. Every fibre in her being said he was wrong. Nothing he could ask for was inappropriate. He could ask for the moon. For a kiss. For a fuck. For a hug like this everyday for the rest of their lives. It would be perfectly natural. And, aside from the moon thing, perfectly doable. She'd gladly give him anything he asked for, just to banish his ghosts and his lonely solace.

Because she knew he wouldn't ask.

Fingers still caressing each other, they seemed to come back to the situation at the same time.

"Lisbon's probably looking for you," he gruffed quietly, pulling back.

Grace followed, not letting him get away. "She can call," she rebuffed, stubbornly holding onto him.

He chuckled. "Don't you have lunch plans with O'Laughlin or something?"

She frowned. That name didn't fit this moment. It was distinctly unpleasant. It made her hugging him feel disloyal and sour. "No," she replied. "I don't. Are you trying to get rid of me?"

His eyes widened and he stopped laughing. His arms had dropped from around her, but he put his hands on her knees as they touched his own. "No. God, no. I...I just thought you might, you know. Want to get back."

Feeling a little rebuffed, she stood and brushed non-existent wrinkles out of her clothes.

"Hey," he soothed quickly, reaching for her hand.

She caught it deftly and held it away, bringing her other hand to cup his temple once again, her thumb brushing just next to his (_healed, eyesight unaffected_) baby blue. Her expression was hard. Her voice soft. "I ache for you," she told him before letting her fingers fall away.

"You'll never know how much."

She walked away.


	54. Beautiful

**A/N**: So the latest ep only confirmed something I've noticed, and that's that almost nobody outside of the CBI takes Grace seriously as a cop. Every other suspect hits on her or dismisses her for her hotness. I'm also pretending they're still in an established ship.

**Beautiful**

It was late in Grace's apartment. She refused to sit down and relax. Her anxiety compelled him to keep standing up as well, watching her as she moved restlessly through her small home.

He bit his lip as Grace scrunched her face and threw her hands up in the air. She was annoyed. He was amused. She punched him softly in the chest, irritated by his badly-hidden smile. He caught her fists in his hands, trapping them gently against him as he tried to cajole her anger away by rubbing circles over her knuckles. It didn't work. His eyes glinted with even more humor at her stubbornness.

"It's not funny," she mumbled, her eyes sparking with indignation.

His smile escaped a little more. "It's a little funny."

She gave him an adorable angry face and huffed loudly. "Easy for you to say. No one accuses you of being so foxy that it's a shame your badge and gun aren't part of a stripper outfit."

Rigsby caved and laughed as Grace continued to scowl at him. Her fists tightened in his hands and he chuckled even harder, feeling her desire to smack the grin right off him.

He pulled her in as she struggled and bear hugged her, his chest rumbling with mirth as she tried to mulishly pull away from him. "No dice," he purred against her hair as he held her close. "You're not getting away until I get a kiss."

"Don't wanna kiss you," she muttered petulantly. "It's not fair. I work so hard for respect, and for what? So suspects can lick me with their eyes and ask then ask for my boss since I'm only here because I'm screwing someone important?" She paused and looked up at him. "Like you? A big, strong archetypal cop?"

Rigsby's grip went somehow softer, yet firmer around her. His playfulness melted and his hands, which desperately wanted to stroke her reassuringly, went still against her. Now wasn't the time for placation. She'd only get angrier if she thought he was trying to calm her down. She was perfectly calm. She was just mad. She always made the point to him that it was perfectly normal to be calm and angry at the same time. To even suggest she was overreacting or emotional would guarantee he'd be sleeping at home. Alone. He gazed down at her evenly.

"You got where you are because of _you_, Grace. Everyone who matters knows that. You screw me because you choose to, and that makes me the luckiest bastard alive." He smiled softly. "God, you have no idea how lucky that makes me."

The hardness in her eyes softened a tad. The resistance in her body wilted into something more voluntary. Still upset, she chose to stroke his arms instead of hugging him fully and giving in. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry."

He shook his head, his expression light. "No need. The fact that you screw me makes my head spin, babe. I don't care what word you choose to describe it."

She sneered prettily. "Why won't anyone just...not see me? Why can't they just see the badge and the gun and treat me like a cop? Why?"

He sighed. "Because they're human. They're human and you're a beautiful woman."

She snorted. "Lisbon's a beautiful woman. No one tells _her_ she should segue into stripping."

Even as she spoke, Rigsby had begun to massage along the alluring line of her back and into her gloriously long hair. He saw her point, but at the same time, _god damn_ she was pretty. It was so hard not to admire her oval face, flawless skin or lovely figure, even when she was ranting about other men for doing just that. Grace saw his appraisal simmering just behind his eyes. He couldn't hide it, not when they were this close. She rolled her eyes, but not unkindly so. She waited, knowing he was forming his answer. At length, he gave it.

"Lisbon is beautiful," he conceded. "But Lisbon isn't a woman when she's working."

She frowned. "How so?"

He inhaled slowly, glancing upwards, trying to explain. "Lisbon knows she's very pretty, and like you, she doesn't want it interfering with her work. But unlike you, she makes herself hard in front of others. No kindness. No indecision. Just justice. Almost like the vulnerable part of her is just...gone." One of his hands had wandered up to her jaw, tracing a slow line until he was thumbing her bee-stung lips. He watched, fascinated, as he brushed them back and forth. "You're so full of kindness and humanity that people can't help but respond to it. Good people will cherish it. Scumbags will exploit it. And no one - and I mean _no one_ - will never see the badge before they see this face."

He'd fallen completely under her spell, even as he spoke. Grace had seen enough of him hypnotized to know that it had happened again. He was stone-still, oblivious to everything except the angel in front of him. She ensnared him, every inch of him, without even trying. The only reason she didn't punch him again was because Wayne was the only man who made her feel empowered with his desire instead of victimized. Even now, she felt that punch-drunk sensation washing over her as her man continued to stare at her with open adoration. Her beauty had bewitched him. Her kind heart had enslaved him. It was thrilling, knowing he was so completely within her power.

But his words were sobering. People were human. Humans will always admire beauty, no matter how much the beautiful might pray for neglect.

And even though she'd accused otherwise, people responded to Rigsby as well. Men became instinctively defensive in his presence, sensing a superior male and wanting to prove their own strength. She also felt the eyes of other women following him. Licking him, as she'd described, with their gaze as he moved through a crowd. He was beautiful. He was unusual. People were human. Even women. And women wanted men who looked like Rigsby. _She_ wanted the man who looked like Rigsby.

She stared up into his eyes and let herself become ensnared, too. His looming presence made it easy. His handsome face, so full of lust, Grace felt herself responding, her feminine body registering his masculine proportions. Broad torso. Long arms. Strong jaw. Short, dark hair.

No one would ever see his badge before they saw his face, either.

"You're beautiful," she whispered distractedly, licking him with her gaze.

He felt it. Growling, his arm banded tighter around her waist while his other hand fisted in her hair at her nape. "Beautiful Grace," he praised back. "So fucking lovely."

Her eyes fluttered and her knees went wobbly. His lust always forced his words into staccato rasps, pelting her with their sharp edges and slicing straight into her lower body.

"Hmmmm," she murmured. "Screw me."

He exhaled sharply. "You owe me a kiss first."

The only way stay conscious in such a steely grip was for Grace to plaster herself against him. She rubbed along his front, dragging their clothes over their hot skin. "Screw me," she purred enticingly, still not one to concede a kiss and admit he'd mollified her.

He knew her game, but her sweet little body was making it hard for him to pay attention. "Kiss," he reiterated, bumping her purposefully, corralling her towards the wall. "Me."

Her hands entered the play, sliding down his arms and up his sides before making distracting little circles along his thighs and hips through his pants. She also upped the verbal ante. "_Fuck_ me."

Rigsby slammed her up against the wall, his hands slapped firmly on either side of her head. He arched into her, relishing her touch. His head snapped back and he growled. "Kiss me right goddamn now, Grace."

Grace keened softly as he ground her against the wall, his impressive body bowed back against the pleasure. She split the difference of his demand and leaned forward enough to kiss his chest, his t-shirt feeling soft and warm under her lips. Grabbing his ass, she locked him in place, scattering kisses and leaving lipstick prints on the white cotton.

Grunting, he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back against the wall, leaning in and taking his kiss, permission be damned. She returned it gladly, opening her mouth to his invasion and letting him tongue her aggressively, just the way she liked it.

"Yes," she moaned hotly. "God, yes."

"So pretty," he rasped against her lips, wanting to rile her up, even after trying to talk her down. "I wanted you the minute I saw you."

Grace made an angry, sexy sound as her indignation and desire mixed together. Rigsby responded by yanking her top off and cupping her breasts through her bra. They swelled over the lace and he placed wet, hungry kisses over their silky softness. "Sexy baby," he muttered, biting her gently. "You make me hard just thinking about you."

"Wayne," she whimpered, trying to fight off the drugging effect of his words. They were objectifying and felt sexist and macho and- _oh, god _her bra was gone and he was eating her alive. Grace pushed harder against the wall for support as he attacked.

Suddenly she was spun around and she gasped as her hot, wet breasts hit the cold wall. Rigsby loomed behind her, his hands coasting over her naked back, forward to her breasts, and then back until they gripped her ass. He was brazenly feeling her up. Grace exclaimed in pretend outrage. She wasn't about to give into his delicious take on sexual harassment.

"So I'm just a pretty face, Wayne? A piece of ass? A conquest?"

He laughed deep in his throat, yanking her back into him. His t-shirt was gone now. Her back collided with his bare chest and she automatically reached back to hug his neck, her head settling against the hollow of his throat.

"Exactly," he coaxed. "You're a great set of tits and ass, sleeping your way to the top." He cupped her breasts again, molding and shaping them and rumbling with pleasure as her nipples hardened and grazed his palms. "I'm just an asshole superior. You don't care about me at all, in fact you hate me. You fuck me because you're ambitious. Heartless slut that you are."

Grace moaned, opening her pants and sliding them off her legs and kicking them away with her bare feet. The irony of his words only made his true meaning shine through. She let her head drop back further into him, tipping her face closer to his. He nuzzled her temple with his chin, kissing along her hairline. "We don't love each other. Not even a little bit."

Grace reached behind her and massaged his cock through his trousers, reveling in his labored hiss. "You only screw me. You've never made love to me," she whispered softly.

Rigsby's chest tightened noticeably against her back and she smiled. He didn't like those words, not when they came from her and not him.

"All your pretty words," she sighed sadly, fisting him lightly and stroking him up and down. "Just lies. Lies to get me in bed, right? Another notch on your bedpost."

"Grace."

She smiled at her name. She heard his denial in it, even though he knew better. In that single word, he was begging her to know that he would never. Never ever ever. She sighed again.

"Now I need to keep you happy. Keep letting you fuck me. Otherwise you'll tell. Lisbon would fire me. I'll never get a job in this line ever again. The woman never does. Unless I get on my knees and suck your cock."

She spun in his arms and dropped to her knees, yanking his pants and underwear down and swallowing him at lightening speed. Rigsby roared, punching the wall hard enough to leave dents. He buckled just as dramatically.

"I love you," he panted desperately. "Baby, I love you so much, I'd never use you like that I- o_h, fuck! Y_ou're my angel, you know that. I'd kill myself before- _Jesus Christ! _Yes, please baby...yes!"

He unclenched his eyes enough to watch as Grace sucked him with spectacular abandon. The sight of his rigid cock, glistening with her saliva, disappearing into her sweet little mouth drove him absolutely crazy. Fuck, she was perfect. Proper and professional and blowing his brains out behind closed doors. He squeezed his eyes shut again and begged. "Why me? God in heaven, baby, why in the hell did you choose _me_?"

Grace moaned around his length before letting him go with a pop. She rose from her knees, ready for when he grabbed her thighs and hiked her up onto his waist, pushing her back into the wall as he buried himself deep inside her in one sharp thrust. He moaned a long, grateful, agonized sound, wrapping his arms around her and pumping in and out at a desperate pace.

She locked her arms around his neck. Cheek to cheek, she keened as her pulsing core was stretched wide and teased with deliciously firm pressure. "You're beautiful," she repeated longingly, cinching her legs tighter around him. "And you're my angel, too."


	55. Revealing

**A/N:** Holy Moses, people. It's been over two months since I've posted a thing, and aside from holiday mayhem that ended ages ago, I have no excuse. Well, except for the show treading insufferable water and taking our ship precisely nowhere. That's a bit of a muse killer. Still, I should have rallied. Anywho, I'll start with a continuation of _Late_, _Research_, _Yours_, _Livid, __Implacable_, _Truculent and Desperate. _Grace takes their news public. Please show me you've missed me by reviewing. I've dearly missed reviews.

**Revealing**

Grace felt a bizarre sense of calm as her statement filled Lisbon's office.

The boss didn't answer immediately, merely stared at her young agent, her eyes widening fractionally as she processed this rather interesting piece of information. Grace let her. She surprised herself, actually. Grace had imagined she would have filled the next few minutes with gallons of explanation and questions about her fate. She'd been pretty sure that one declarative statement wouldn't have felt like enough, like she needed to bombard her superior with assurances and pleas for understanding. Instead, she simply waited.

Lisbon seemed to need the time.

At last, she exhaled softly. "You're sure?" she asked quietly.

Grace nodded. "I'm in my fourteenth week," she replied. She felt no need to hide the truth. Indeed, she strangely hoped Lisbon would do the math.

Did she ever. Grace watched as Lisbon's sharp mind did some quick subtraction and took her pregnancy back to the month of conception.

Lisbon's brow arched slightly.

Grace felt a faint smile cross her own lips. She gave nothing away in it.

Lisbon let the knowledge sit between them unspoken before finally asking, "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me? Anything I should be made aware of?"

Grace held her gaze. "Is there anything specific you'd like to know?" she countered evenly.

With that, Lisbon smirked. Shifting her eyes, she let her sights fall behind Grace to the bullpen beyond her glass wall. Grace felt her watching him. Felt the wheels turning in her boss's head as she gazed at the father of her child.

"Tell me he knows. Tell me I won't have a 220 pound man freaking out in my unit when he discovers you're pregnant through an email update."

Grace bit her lip. There it was. Out there for her to confirm or deny with the next breath she took. She inhaled.

"He knows."

Lisbon looked back at Grace, her eyes battling between questioningly hard and acceptingly soft.

Grace steered her towards her greatest worry. "What will you do with us?"

It was Lisbon's turn to bite her lip. "I don't know. I guess I need to know if you've been together this entire time."

"No," Grace answered immediately. "We have not."

Lisbon squinted, sensing wiggle room in her answer. "Are you together now? Now that he knows?"

It was this that dragged Grace's eyes to the floor. Lisbon knew before she spoke, it was that clear.

"He won't leave me," Grace replied vaguely. "He's made that clear."

"Agent Van Pelt," Lisbon spoke with more authority, "are you involved in a sexual relationship with a unit member? Again?"

Grace cringed at the last word. She pursed her mouth, defiance simmering in her expression. "I'm in a sexual relationship with the father of my baby."

She didn't know why, but that answer made her feel slightly less guilty. She wasn't about to let Lisbon turn this into a simple question of canoodling co-workers. No way in hell. He wasn't just a unit member, nor was he a casual office fuck that she was nailing in the copy room after hours. He was her match. Her perfect match. And their bond was now sealed, sanctified by the miracle of life they'd made together. And yes, she made love to him. It strengthened that bond each time she touched him.

She lifted her eyes and gave them to Lisbon. Let her do her worst.

"Why isn't he in here with you?"

Grace tilted her chin as more self-righteousness filled her. "Because this is about me. I won't have him punished for something he had no control over. The baby is mine. I'm keeping it. Over the next few months, I'll become unfit for fieldwork. After that, I'll need maternity leave. Hence, I'm informing my superior."

Lisbon snorted, angry and pleased at her agent's brass. "He has plenty of control over sleeping with you. Just like he'll have absolutely zero control when it'll come to watching his pregnant lover get sent into potentially dangerous situations. Don't waltz into my office and tell me he's blameless or unaffected in all this, Van Pelt. It's insulting."

Grace's chest tightened, her former calm all but obliterated. "Please," she said quietly. "Please don't separate us. I came in here alone, he doesn't even know that I'm speaking with you." She turned her head and looked back at his seated form at his desk. Oblivious, he answered his phone as she watched.

Lisbon sighed and sat back heavily. Her faux leather chair hissed as the air squeezed out of the upholstery. "I'll have to tell Hightower. Her word will decide and I doubt she'll look kindly on keeping you both. You've broken the rules _again_, and now there's a child involved."

Grace cursed the tears welling up in her throat. She and Wayne had already discussed this as a probable outcome, yet hearing the words, so much like an indictment of their relationship, still frightened her.

"Then let me speak to her," she requested. "Let me make my case."

Lisbon's brow arched for the second time.

"Oh, she'll insist on that. But I guarantee that when you make your case, she'll demand that Rigsby be sitting next to you."


End file.
